


The Fall Line

by appalachian_fireflies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Disability, Hiking, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, National Park Service, Nature, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Abuse, Sexual Harassment, Suicide Attempt, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 16:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13415448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: The smaller guy’s head peeked over- was that a garbage can lid?  Blond hair, flashing eyes.  The pissy probably-a-homophobe short order cook.“Steve?” Bucky blinked at him.  Steve didn’t lower his makeshift shield, just glanced back at the other guy; smart tan Ranger uniform, bristly short hair and breathing like a bull.“Could uh,” Bucky glanced towards the trash can lid again.  Trash can lid?  “Could somebody fill me in?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story notes: While the locations in the story are real, I have taken some conscious liberties with them. So if you go into this story knowing Yosemite super well, hopefully you’ll forgive me!

“Walk with me, memory to memory, the shared path, the mutual view. Walk with me. The past lies in wait. It is not behind. It seems to be in front. How else could it trip me as I start to run?” – Jeanette Winterson

*

“Don’t touch her!” a deep voice rang out, and Bucky could feel it; the cool shift in the air, the grasshoppers going quiet. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t kidding. 

“Whoa, don’t get crazy,” someone responded- masculine, disbelieving laughter. “The fuck?” 

Bucky ran towards the trash bins, tossing aside the big black plastic bags slung over his shoulders. He didn’t lift his flashlight right away, hung back, assessing. Three shadows near the bins, the solitary flickering light at the back entrance of the lodge. Complete darkness in the forest beyond. 

Bucky heard a metal clatter, saw a flash of light- reflected glare. Get down. He shook the instinct, and moved forward, footsteps crunching on the gravel. One of the bodies turned toward him- a young woman, one of the housekeepers, long curling hair and wide eyes. 

He saw the movement before it happened; the tense readiness to spring, the shift of feet as the big guy next to her positioned himself. Bucky didn’t have time to think when the dude lunged towards the little guy in front of him, just leaned forward and grabbed him by the hair, yanked him back. 

The guy pinwheeled, brought up his fists, but Bucky just moved out of the way. “What the FUCK?”

The smaller guy’s head peeked over- was that a garbage can lid? Blond hair, flashing eyes. The pissy probably-a-homophobe short order cook. What was his name? Sean? No- 

“Steve?” Bucky blinked at him. Steve didn’t lower his trash can lid, just glanced back at the other guy; smart tan uniform, bristly short hair and breathing like a bull. His plastic name tag had black printed letters that read RUMLOW. 

“What’s going on?” Bucky looked at Angie, and saw Steve’s trash lid pivot towards him out of the corner of his eye. 

Angie smiled, watery and not reaching her eyes. “Nothing,” she smoothed her hair back, hand shaking. Her hand was on the doorknob; she’d been inching toward it. “Come on, Steve,” she opened the door. 

Rumlow muttered something Bucky didn’t catch, gave Bucky a dark look and walked off towards the parking lot. 

“It’s fine, Angie,” Steve watched him go. 

“Could uh,” Bucky glanced towards the trash can lid again. Trash can lid? “Could somebody fill me in?” 

*

**3 Hours Earlier**

Memorial Day weekend meant the Yosemite Bug was full for the first time since September, and the summer hires were already dreaming of central AC and reliable plumbing. The families had settled in to their rustic cabins after a long day of driving in circles, and the backpackers in the shared dorms were sound asleep and ready to greet the sunrise, the overachieving fucks. 

Bucky Barnes had just woken up, dragging his cot behind himself as he pulled it back into the staff dorm and tossed it onto the bare metal springs of a vacant top bunk. He crouched down to examine the man sleeping on the bottom bunk. All at once, he went still, barely breathing, movements slow and controlled. He stopped next to the man’s ear, and drew in a breath. 

“Up and at ‘em PJ’s,” Bucky barked, and the man flailed awake, hands slapping at thin air. 

“Barnes!” Sam yelled. 

“Shut up,” someone next to them hissed. 

“Sorry,” Sam dropped his voice, glaring at Bucky. “Man, you are lucky my subconscious knew it was you, or I woulda whooped your ass.”

“What was that thing you said to me, in the helicopter?” Bucky tossed his mattress back on the second level of the cot over the bare springs. “I’m a PJ cause even the Green Berets gotta call 911 sometimes? Like you’re some hard ass motherfucker.”

“Man, fuck you,” Sam pushed him out of the way, stumbling towards the lockers on the far wall. “I can’t believe you talked me into this nature bullshit.”

“I talked you into it?” Bucky laughed, flipping his hair up into a bun with practiced ease. “Who was going on about the fresh healing mountain air?”

“Shut up,” someone rolled over in their cot, springs creaking. 

“Sorry,” Bucky dropped his voice. “It’s good money, c’mon. You just gotta adjust to it.” 

“I’ve been here a week, I’ve adjusted as much as I’m gonna,” Sam tossed his pajamas into the locker and pulled on his work pants. “And I’ve had better money.” 

“Well, turns out killing people’s not a desirable transferable skill,” Bucky shrugged. “Wish 10 year old Bucky’d thought that one through when he got all caught up watching those towers burn.”

“I hate you,” Sam pushed him out of the way, Bucky grinning and following him to the door. 

The grounds were lit only by strands of bare bulb string lights, two of which were already out even though Bucky’d just fixed them yesterday. 

Sam looked over at the hot tub and sighed. “I wish-“

Bucky hummed noncommittally. 

“You didn’t,” Sam looked at him. 

“You know that backpacker last night? Tall, dark, and handsome?” 

“Charlie?” Sam pushed open the door to the June Bug Café, which had closed when the sun set. He flicked on the overhead antler chandeliers to join the fluorescents still lit in the kitchen. 

“Oh, yeah, him. Anyway, turns out the feeling was mutual, but he had this phobia about getting ticks in his ass-“ 

“I have to clean that thing, man!”

“But he liked water just fine. Oh please, there’s enough chlorine in there to kill-“

“Maybe, but I read this story that someone got pregnant-“

“You seriously believe-“

Sam opened the janitor’s cabinet and tossed Bucky the mop. “Fine, yeah, I don’t. Stop showing off, it’s a mop not a baton.” 

“You shoulda seen me do it with a rifle. Anyway, I think I helped Chris discover his sexuality.”

There was a muffled clatter from the kitchen, and a head popped up over the kitchen counter. Icy blue eyes looked disapprovingly into Bucky’s, then the head disappeared again. Bucky felt a pang of anxiety at being overheard, then anger. Fine, whatever. This homophobic asshat didn’t like it? 

Uh huh,” Sam sprayed the pine tables down. “So he’s straight, then?” 

Bucky hauled the chairs up onto the clean tables. “Straight as you’ll be when you finally fall for me, teddy bear.” 

The cook’s head reappeared, and man, that glare could freeze fire. Bucky smirked, and the guy flipped out a chunk of risen dough, punching down like he imagined it was someone’s face. 

“You wish,” Sam threw a rag at his face, smelling sharply of bleach. He sighed. “Toss that back, I need it.” 

“Who’s that?” Bucky walked to Sam like he was handing the rag back, flicking his eyes towards the glaring cook. 

“Steve,” Sam flicked his eyes over to the kitchen, pretended like he was wiping the table. “Hasn’t been here much longer than us.”

“Huh,” Bucky picked the mop back up. “I don’t like him.” 

“Man, he hasn’t said one word to you,” Sam grabbed the bleach rag and tossed it into the laundry can, slam-dunk. “Maybe he just, you know. Likes his space.” 

“I can tell,” Bucky insisted. “I feel like he’s staring at me. I think he’s a repressed homosexual.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “You think everyone’s gay.”

“No, everyone’s queer. Some people are lesbians. Or bisexual. Or-“ 

“I’m doing the lobby now,” Sam waved a hand at him, smiling. 

By the time Bucky was putting out the fire in the Great Room, sweet smells were drifting from the kitchen to the lobby, and the cook had taken a break to chat with the woman at the front desk. She was desi, with a sharp red dress and matte red lipstick, and was smiling fondly at whatever the cook was demonstrating with his outstretched hands. His apron was covered in flour, a streak of it in his blond hair, and his smile looked genuine and relaxed as he spoke to her. 

Well. He was probably bi, then. 

The woman leaned in as if to hear the story better; though that could also have been because of the height difference, which in her heels was noticeable. Her eyes flicked to Bucky and back, and before he could react the cook’s head turned suddenly, meeting Bucky’s gaze.

His expression shifted instantly, the relaxed smile falling to a frown, tension pulling his posture straight and alert. Bucky looked away first, poking at the fire that was obviously already out. 

Well, anyway, that proved that theory. The guy just hated him in particular. Some people were just repressed bigots, Mr. Counselor-In-Training Sam Wilson. 

Sweeping the porches was always kind of a crapshoot in the dark, but he did find a half-eaten bag of potato chips, which he funneled into his mouth while Sam made gagging noises. 

It was his turn to haul the garbage to the bear cans, tossing the giant black bags over his shoulder as Sam gave him a wave and headed back to the dorms. 

The physical labor was enough to tire him out, but Bucky couldn’t help but watch the darkness around him as he crunched down the gravel path to the trash cans. He could feel his hearing going sharp in the absence of visual input, and had to stop himself from flinching when a squirrel darted away into the forest. There was a slight breeze in the trees, millions of rustling leaves like a gentle static. 

“C’mon, she likes it. Don’t you, baby?” The voice was faint, and Bucky felt his vision going sharp, looking for more input. Three figures, shadows by the light of the back door. 

“Don’t touch her!” It was nearly a growl, and Bucky felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was the promise of violence, tension before a storm broke. 

“Whoa, don’t get crazy.” Laughter. “The fuck?” 

Oh, that was bad. Hell of a way to escalate. Bucky tossed aside the garbage bags, ran towards the noise.

The guy was covering with the laughter- his body was tensing, feet shifting, ready to spring. He loomed over the figure in front of him, half hidden by- wait. Was that a trash can lid? 

Bucky darted forward as the man sprung, grabbed him by the hair and yanked back, stepped back when he swung. 

The trash can lid lowered a fraction, and blue eyes joined the blond hair, wary and assessing. The shield shifted towards Bucky now, covering for the young woman beside him, her hand going to the doorknob. 

“Steve?” Bucky blinked, letting go of the man’s hair. Rumlow, from the name badge. Ranger’s uniform. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” the woman’s smile wobbled as she pushed the door open behind her. “Come on, Steve.”

Rumlow gave Bucky a dark look, shoved him away and took off towards the parking lot. Bucky watched him go. 

“It’s ok, Angie,” Steve said, watching Bucky. 

The woman hung inside the door. “I’m gonna go see Peggy. She’s been waiting up for me.” 

“Sure,” Steve lowered the garbage can lid, placed it back on the metal scraps bin. 

“Was he- should I go get him?” Bucky frowned. Whatever had happened, it was probably something he should report. 

“Nah, let him go,” Steve watched the truck lights flash in the parking lot. 

“If he,” Bucky looked at the woman. “If he touched you-“

The woman shook her head. “He’s just a real creep. Gets off on harassing people.” She shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle. Thanks, though.” She opened the door wider and gave Steve a look.

Steve gritted his teeth as if the next words pained him. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Well, you know. No problem.” 

Steve nodded once and disappeared back inside, leaving Bucky to the crunch of tires on gravel and the hiss of the forest. 

*

The next morning, Bucky was doing his best with his earplugs and t-shirt tied over his eyes when he was roughly shaken awake. His backbrain registered that the fingers were small, no real weight behind the push, though the grip was strong.

“Wha?” he shook himself groggily, pulled off the t-shirt to stare up into the sun. He winced, temporarily blinded, and blinked until the image resolved itself into the furious face of the short-order cook, blonde hair a backlit halo. More like one of those vengeful angels with the seven faces than the pictures with the flowing pastel robes.

God, karma really owed him better than this. He pulled up the blanket with his right hand on reflex. 

“What do you want?” he meant to sound annoyed, but it came off as more of a whine.

Steve let go of his shoulder, hands going to his hips. “You filed a report.” 

“I-report?” His brain gave a shuddering attempt to parse this out. Report, soldier. Jesus Christ. “Oh, yeah.” The summary in his evening report. If you saw something, you wrote a report in case someone needed it later. Pair of glasses in the pool’s bug net. Bird shit on the skylight. Some guy sexually harassing employees. It was in the employee training. Rogers knew that. 

“Yeah? That’s all you’ve got to say?” Steve’s lips went thin. “You know they’re pulling Angie in, right?”

“Oh.” No, he didn’t know. In hindsight, he probably should’ve expected that. He just- it was in the training, his brain repeated dumbly. He did what they’d told him to. 

“Yeah,” Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “They want you to come in, too. 10 sharp, at the Majestic Yosemite.” 

Bucky groaned. They’d have to take the bus to the center of the park, in traffic. Which meant-

“We’re leaving now.” Steve threw an apple at him, which Bucky darted a hand out from beneath the blanket to grab. 

“Fuck, fine,” Bucky glared at him. “Just- I’ll meet you in the lobby. Five minutes.” 

Steve spun and stalked away towards the main building, and Bucky waited until he’d faded in the distance before he rolled out of the cot and dragged it back into the dorms. 

The bus trip was awkwardly quiet, Steve and Angie both refusing to look at Bucky for the entire half hour. As if Bucky had done something wrong, like, I don’t know, actually sexually harassed someone instead of saving their asses? It felt like he’d entered some fucked-up parallel universe where everything he did was subject to the (according to a quick glance at his badge) Steven G. Rogers Frown of Disapproval. 

The Majestic Yosemite was a sweeping mansion of stone, glass, and broad wooden beams. The dining room was formal wear only for all “ladies and gentlemen ages four and above,” and guests were greeted by porters and valets. Bucky swallowed as he stepped into the high-ceilinged lobby, footsteps echoing in the space. The beams in the ceiling reminded him of cathedrals, sweeping buttresses. 

Rumlow was waiting in the lobby, leaning against one of the pillars that had been carved from an ancient tree. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was smirking at them as they entered. 

Angie glanced to the side as if examining the architecture, but Steve met Rumlow’s gaze head-on, refusing to look away. 

“Come on,” Rumlow nodded to a door next to the guest reception. “Let’s get this over with.” 

He seemed to know his way down the corridor lined with offices, and passed each of them until he stopped at the end of the hall. The door was solid wood, and the carved plaque over the door read “Director.” Rumlow knocked twice. 

“Come in,” a voice from inside called, and Rumlow pushed open the door. 

The office was large, with floor to ceiling glass windows and intricately woven carpets. Bookshelves lined the far wall, and it seemed lived-in, as if the occupant had been collecting items here for quite some time. A hunting trophy was mounted above a dark wood desk; the head of a grizzly bear, its snout pulled back in a snarl and teeth gleaming white. 

“Welcome,” the man seated at the desk smiled, waving them in to sit on chairs with red leather nailed into wood. He was older, neat haircut and suit. 

“James Barnes,” he nodded to Bucky, who nearly jumped at the unexpected address. “Steven Rogers,” he smiled at Steve, whose expression had gone stony, taking in his surroundings. “And Angela Marinov,” he said gravely, turning to the young woman. 

“We take allegations of sexual harassment very seriously in this organization,” Pierce said to the room. “And I want you,” he looked at Angela- Angie, Bucky remembered Steve calling her, “to know that this matter has my full attention.” He leaned forward, towards Angie. “Now, Mr. Barnes’ report had a very serious accusation against Mr. Rumlow. And it’s my duty to investigate that accusation. It’s also my duty to make sure that Mr. Rumlow,” Pierce nodded to him, “is not falsely accused of a crime he did not commit. So, Miss Marinov,” Pierce leaned back, expression neutral. “Was a crime committed, last night?”

“No,” Angie said, hands twisting nervously in her lap. “No, sir.” 

“So, Mr. Barnes,” Pierce’s gray eyes met his, “must have misunderstood the situation.” 

“Yes, sir,” Angie replied. 

Rumlow leaned forward eagerly, his presence in the room seeming to grow at his vindication. “I was just-“

Pierce held up a hand. “I think we’re done here, then,” he smiled at Angie, and the tension in the room seemed to break. “Thank you for coming,” he nodded at the three of them, a dismissal. 

The ride back to the Bug was as quiet as the ride out, but the tension was different- less angry and frayed. Something Bucky couldn’t quite put his finger on, Angie staring out the window while Steve kept glancing at her. 

Angie waved goodbye to Steve and went to the main building, likely to start cleaning vacated rooms for the day. Steve turned to walk to the dorms, and Bucky jogged to catch up with him. 

“Why didn’t she just say something?” Bucky asked, annoyance creeping into his tone. “If she’d just told the truth-“ To start with, Bucky wouldn’t have looked like a giant idiot in front of their boss.

Steve whirled around, stopping in place with his feet planted. “Don’t you dare tell her that.”

“But,” Bucky put up his hands, feeling defensive. “She could have,” he started, trying to sound reasonable. 

“Don’t.” Steve stepped forward, into Bucky’s space. “Ever. Tell her that.” He looked Bucky up and down. “You can’t understand. She never had a-“ He looked away. “Just, don’t say that to her.”

“Alright,” Bucky kept his hands up, leaned back. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Steve snapped out, and strode back towards the dorms. 

Jesus Christ, Bucky thought. You just can’t win. 

He wanted to be righteously angry. Logically, it was justified. But even as he tried to hold onto his anger, it slipped away. Something didn't feel right; about the meeting, about Angie's quiet deflection and Steve's anger. There was a story, here, and he couldn't help watching Steve's retreating back as he wondered what he'd missed.


	2. Chapter 2

The staff computer room was mostly ignored by employees with their laptops and connection to the hotel wifi. It was about the size of a closet and held one ancient computer tower and monitor. It also had a door that closed, though, and privacy was hard to come by when you worked around hundreds of guests and slept in shared dorms. 

Steve hit the button on the computer tower and held his breath; the monitor flashed the Windows icon and a progress bar. Thank god. He sat in the rolling chair and put his feet up on the desk, munching on a plate of fries. There were perks to being the last cook to clean and prep, and leftovers were a given. 

He glanced back over his shoulder at the closed door before he brought up the ex-Quiverfull site and logged in. Immediately, he felt a pang at the site’s most recent thread: _Has anyone heard from LostArrow?_ The follow-up messages noted that he hadn’t posted in a few weeks, and NotQuivering was worried. 

_Sorry,_ he typed, _I’m safe. Started a new job. Just been busy, limited access to internet. Can’t say too much but things are good, should have enough saved by the end of summer to schedule surgery. Getting experience to hopefully move to a more stable job and finish classes. How is everyone else?_

Steve hit post and started clicking through the other threads; NotQuivering had found a house that she could afford. The kids had to share rooms, but it was-

The doorknob turned, and Steve felt his heart leap into his throat. On reflex, he minimized the window. Shit, he should’ve exited out of it. Too late now. 

“Hel-oh,” Steve turned to see the person looming in the doorway. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, running his fingers through his hair, which was currently down and brushing his shoulders. He was wearing a long sleeved red henley, the top two buttons undone. 

There was an awkward pause, and Steve cleared his throat.

“Uh, do you want the computer?” he gestured. “I can just finish up-“

Bucky shook his head. “No, no. I was just- looking for you.” 

Steve tensed. “Oh?” Bucky was standing in the doorway, and he was frankly huge. There was no way Steve could get out without pushing past him. 

Bucky looked away. “Would you just- God, could you stop,” he gestured to Steve. 

Steve looked at himself. “Stop what?” 

“That expression on your face. You look like you’re gonna eat me.”

“What?” Steve laughed, and Bucky relaxed a little at this, smiled. 

“Yeah, honestly, I’ve been working up the nerve all day, but you were really busy, so.” The smile slipped from Bucky’s face. “I just wanted to apologize. We’re gonna be here all summer, and I didn’t mean to fuck anything up for you and your friend.”

Steve sighed. He felt tired, all at once. “Yeah, I know you didn’t. You should really apologize to Angie, though.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky paused. “Um. I was hoping though. That you might, explain it to me.” 

“What part?” Steve asked, frowning. 

“Did Angie know Rumlow or something? Like, is he an ex-boyfriend?” 

“What?” Steve asked, incredulous. “Rumlow? No.”

“Ok, ok,” Bucky put a hand up. “It just- it seemed like you both knew what was gonna happen as soon as we got called in. And Rumlow seemed to know his way to Pierce’s office pretty well.”

“Oh,” Steve’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, no. He’s just some jackass.”

"Alright," Bucky made a frustrated noise. “Can you just. Start from the top.” 

Steve laced his hands together in his lap. “You really don’t know. I mean,” he amended, “I thought you probably didn’t know what you were doing. But. Look, Angie gets this pretty much every day.” 

“Rumlow,” Bucky’s brow furrowed. 

“No, no,” Steve waved a hand. “From everyone. She’ll smile at a guest and he’ll think she’s flirting with him. New staff comes and they all start trying to make up excuses to come into the rooms she’s cleaning. You know?” 

Bucky looks like someone kicked his puppy. “So she didn’t want to report because, what, she’d be dragged up to Pierce every day?” 

Steve tilted his head side to side. “More like, she’ll have to go through it again, bring the person into the room. Maybe piss him off so he feels like he has to get her back. And then,” Steve spreads his hands. “Things just get worse for her.” 

“Well, if she’d just said-“ Bucky started, and Steve felt himself go stiff. 

“No, Barnes, you’re not listening.” Steve’s voice went low, angry. “Nothing. Would have happened.” He leaned forward, eyes on Bucky. “What evidence does she have?” 

“She has a witness,” Bucky argued. 

“Yeah, and what did you see?” Steve challenged. “Rumlow’s not dumb enough to do this shit where there are enough witnesses to do something about it.”

“Well,” Bucky paused. 

“Yeah. It’s he said-she said. And who do you think they’re gonna listen to? A housekeeper, or a Ranger that’s probably been here a couple decades?”

“You say this like you already know,” Bucky challenged. 

“Maybe I do know,” Steve said. “And don’t you think it’s weird,” Steve nearly stood in his chair, trying to get some height on this damn looming bastard. “That they dragged us to the director’s office? Why not Angie’s supervisor?” 

Bucky looked away. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that. And Rumlow stayed after, right? Pierce didn’t even ask him to.” 

Steve felt like a ballon that’d been pricked, and sat back down. “Yeah. Exactly.” He watched Bucky, surprised. “Rumlow never expected anything to happen to him. And now that he knows there aren’t any consequences,” Steve shrugged. 

“I get it,” Bucky said. “I mean, I don’t really, I don’t think. But I understand more now. And I’m sorry. That I made things worse.”

Steve could feel his jaw drop. “Well. It’s not really your fault.”

Bucky looked quietly at the doorframe for a moment. “They were trying to intimidate her. Weren’t they?” 

Steve nodded. “Angie needs this job. She’s on a work permit. And it’s- not safe. For her to go home.” 

“Oh,” Bucky shuffled. “Damn.” 

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. “So she’d rather put up with it, than. These kinds of things- they can really drag you through the ringer. Interrogate you with about a dozen lawyers, make it so you can’t work. Try to find any time you didn’t tuck the sheets right. Or worse, if you ever flirted with someone else.”

“Can I do anything?” Bucky watched him. “To make it right?” 

Steve shook his head. “Angie’ll forgive you. If you apologize to her. She doesn’t blame you.”

“Ok. Sorry for bothering you,” Bucky pushed himself away from the door. 

“You didn’t. Bother me,” Steve lied. He held out a hand. “We’re good.”

Bucky shook it, gave him a smile. “Ok. Thanks.” 

“Sure,” Steve turned away. 

“I’ll just, close the door,” Bucky said. 

“Thanks,” Steve waited for the door to click shut, then pulled back up the window. 

An hour later, he decided to pack it in for the night. His back felt sore, and he knew he shouldn’t have pushed it this far, but he also knew that if he hadn’t Barnes might’ve seen him. It was too damn hot to wear sweatshirts here. 

Rock, hard place. 

He scooped up the rest of the fries and heated them in the kitchen, then brought the plate out to the front desk. 

“Hey Steve,” Angie greeted, sliding out from Peggy’s arm over her. “Ooh, fried food. Thank god.” She made a grabbing gesture, and Peggy laughed. 

“We’re scheming how we might keep you here,” Peggy snatched up some of the fries and gave Steve a smile. “We’ve begun to expect this every night.” 

“We’d have to go back to the vending machine,” Angie said in mock horror. 

Steve laughed and leaned against the counter. “If all goes well, maybe I’ll get an NPS job. Finish my classes online.” 

“Excellent,” Peggy said, shoving fries into her mouth with abandon now that no one was around to expect otherwise. Her hair was loose from its pins, and she glanced at the clock. 

“You ought to go to sleep, darling,” she said to Angie. 

Angie leaned in and gave Peggy a kiss, laughing when Peggy pulled her forward around the waist. When she let go, Angie’s cheeks were flushed pink, and she was smiling. 

“Night, Steve,” she waved. 

Peggy watched her go for a moment, then turned to raise an eyebrow at Steve. “And you,” she gave him an expectant look. 

“I know, I’m taking it off now,” he grumbled. 

“See that you do. Good night, dear,” she waved him off. 

“Night, Pegs.” 

Steve nearly misses it when he’s heading back to the dorms; his ribs ache, and reading about NotQuivering’s kids has shaken some memories loose that he’s trying to shove back in their box. 

“Steve!” he hears just a few feet away, and turns, surprised. Angie is standing there in her light blue uniform with the white apron, her face nearly as pale. 

Standing up in her space is Brock Rumlow, who rolls his eyes when he sees Steve. 

“What, you gonna wave a trash can lid at me again?” Rumlow sneers. “Too bad your boyfriend isn’t here to save you.”

This is bad, Steve thinks. It’s dark out. Everyone’s asleep. They’re far enough away from the main building and the dorms that no one would probably hear them. 

“Hey, Angie,” Steve ignores Rumlow. “Did you leave your purse? Peggy told me to come look for you.”

“Yeah,” Angie says, relieved, moving away from Rumlow. She doesn’t carry a purse, but they’re closer to the main building. “I must’ve-“

Rumlow’s hand shoots out and grabs Angie’s arm. “She says she’s got a boyfriend. That sound right to you? A _boy_ friend?”

Angie pulls away, and Rumlow lets go. “I have to go,” she says, her voice shaking. 

“Hey, no problem,” Rumlow smiles. “Calm down, alright?” He looks at Steve. “Catch you later.” 

Steve doesn’t reply, just nods at Angie when she comes over to join him. She’s shaking all over, watches Rumlow like a hawk until he’s back in the parking lot, truck lights on. They’re walking as fast as they can without running.

“Fuck,” Angie says. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees.

“I think he knows. About me and Peggy,” Angie draws in a deep, shaky breath. “I think- it made him more interested.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, tired. 

“Fuck,” Angie says, curling her fingers into her fists and banging them against her thighs. She’s started crying, and she rubs her hands over her eyes. “I thought, when I made it here. Things would be better.” 

“There are always men like him,” Steve says. “But,” he steps into the lobby, and meets Peggy’s gaze, which drops from confusion to dismay when she spots Angie. “There aren’t always women like Pegs, right?” 

“Yeah,” Angie gives him a pat on the shoulder. “Listen, I’m fine. I’ll go back with Peggy. You should go to sleep.”

“You sure?” 

“Yeah,” Angie gives him a smile. “Don’t worry about this. Peggy and I’ll figure it out.” 

“Alright,” Steve says slowly. “Let me know if-“

“No,” Angie shakes her head. “Steve, I mean it. I don’t want you to get any more involved if you can help it.” She makes eye contact with him, serious. “I don’t want them sniffing around. You need this job too.”

“Well,” Steve looks down. “I’m here.” 

“I know,” she says, and her smile is a dismissal. Look, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. 

Don’t worry about me. 

*

The next day, Steve gets up bright and early, takes the park bus to the north, gets off at the trailhead and hikes a mile before he gets to the fork and turns away from the main foot traffic. It’s just a day hike today, basic trail maintenance. He won’t even break the tree line. But he can log it with his volunteer hours, make sure the main traffic on the trail doesn’t just miss the smaller trail to the outlook and trample the fall line. Given the number of people that trek through here every day, it’s not a small thing to keep the erosion from getting out of hand. 

He’s covered in sweat by the time he’s finished, and the lunch he packed wasn’t enough to keep him from feeling starved by the time he gets back to the June Bug. It’s dark, and the café’s just closing, but Gerald gives him a sandwich the size of his head and tells him to eat outside. 

Bucky is sitting at one of the porch tables with another man, broom and mop leaning up against the wall. It smells like someone scared a skunk, and the smell gets stronger as Steve approaches the outer tables. 

“Oh, hey,” Bucky waves a hand. There’s a joint between his fingers, rolled in white paper. Well, that explains the smell. “Steve. Wanna join us?” 

The other man turns, looking annoyed, and Steve shakes his head. He doesn’t recognize the guy; he looks fit enough to be one of the thru-hikers, though. 

“Nah,” Steve edges away. “I’m just. Eating this sandwich.”

 _I’m just eating this sandwich?_ Smooth, Rogers. 

Bucky shrugs, but he looks a little hurt. The other guy looks relieved though, and is happy to ignore Steve as he and Bucky share the blunt. 

Steve eats his sandwich as quickly as he can, cleans up after himself, and heads off for a shower. The water feels good, it’s not smart for him to get comfortable, hang out for too long. He brushes his teeth with a lone daddy long-leg camping in the light fixture, and puts on his pajamas. He likes the dark of the campground; he feels invisible. Even if someone else were to be out here, they would probably barely see him coming. 

He’s nearly back to the men’s dorm, dirty clothes in hand, when he sees Bucky again. He starts to approach him, wanting to apologize; he doesn’t want Bucky to think he hates him. They’d kind of made peace, and Steve wants to keep it that way. 

Bucky doesn’t go to the dorms. Instead, he looks around, pauses, then turns off and heads into one of the footpaths leading into the woods.

Steve shouldn’t follow. He really shouldn’t. It’s not his business if Bucky wants to go off in the woods at night. And get lost. What a dumbass thing to do. 

He waits, watches the head of the trail. A couple of minutes pass, and Bucky doesn’t reappear. Five more minutes, and Steve is standing anxiously in the cold, wondering what he should do. 

He knows he won’t be able to fall asleep, because now he feels responsible. What if Bucky gets lost in the dark? He didn’t bring any supplies with him. In a few hours, he’d be all but unfindable; this is Yosemite. The forests only go deeper into the Sierra Nevadas from here, and they stretch for what could be a month’s worth of hiking in a straight line. 

This is ridiculous. Barnes is an adult. Steve turns away, walks into the men’s dorms. He puts his dirty clothes in his locker to deal with later, looks at his cot. 

Looks over at Barnes’ empty one. 

Oh, god damn it. 

Steve shoves his compass and grounds map into his bag with a bottle of water, and stalks off towards the path. If Bucky isn’t on the path, he’ll head back. Tell the Rangers. Then he’s done all he could.

Steve’s a good ten minutes in before he hears it. A quiet moan, somewhere just off the trail. He slows down, stares down at his feet in the low light of the flashlight. There it is again, but it’s so faint- he tries not to make any noise, doesn’t want to lose the sound. 

“Bucky?” he whispers, looking off into the forest. There’s a faint light up ahead, like someone has a flashlight, but it’s partially covered. 

Steve moves quietly forward towards the light, puts his own down. Why did Bucky come out to this trail, anyway? What is he doing in the woods at night? Sure, Steve has seen him wander around before, but he’s probably not stupid enough to go on a night hike with no visibility. Even if he does sound like he’s from New York. 

He gets closer to the source of the light and freezes. Oh. 

Bucky is leaning up against a tree with the backpacker, his arm around his waist. The guy is leaning in and kissing him. Steve can see his tongue in Bucky’s mouth when the flashlight shifts. Bucky is working at the guy’s belt, smiles when he gets it open and slips a hand inside the guy’s pants. 

It’s like a bucket of cold water has been poured over Steve’s head. He covers his flashlight, freezes. He really shouldn’t be here. Stupid. He should’ve known. To literally any other person this would’ve been obvious. 

He wants to leave, but now he’s extra conscious of every snapping twig or crackling leaf underfoot, and he can’t see because there’s no light. 

Bucky whispers something to the guy and he laughs, pulls at Bucky’s belt until Steve can hear the click and rasp of leather. Bucky grunts, leans in to kiss the guy’s neck. 

Steve takes a step back, and hears a loud snap. 

Both heads turn toward him, frozen. 

Steve isn’t sure if he should run. Can they see him? Maybe they think it’s just a squirrel or something.

 _I’m a squirrel,_ Steve thinks. _I’m a squirrel. I was just making sure you didn’t get lost and die of exposure. That’s believable. That’s the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said. Oh god, why didn’t he just go to sleep._

“I think it’s just a squirrel or something,” Steve hears Bucky say, and he starts breathing again. 

_That’s right. I’m a squirrel,_ he thinks hysterically, clapping a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t laugh. Maybe if he just waits, they won’t be paying attention anymore. 

Bucky laughs and starts pushing down the guy’s pants. “I like being watched.” 

“I- oh,” the guy says in a punched-out breath as Bucky leans down, trails the palm of his right hand down the guy’s torso until he’s squatting, takes the guy’s dick into his mouth. The guy leans his head back against the tree, mouth half-open, fingers threaded through Bucky’s long hair. 

“Back, more,” the guy gasps. “Yeah.” Steve can hear the wet suction of Bucky’s mouth on the guy’s cock, can see how much he’s enjoying it with the flickers of the flashlight. Bucky’s arm is moving; he’s touching himself, like he likes doing this so much he can’t help it. Bucky moves forward until the guy’s cock disappears into his throat, moans like it’s the best present he’s ever had. 

Steve swallows, shifts in place. He’s only human, and watching Bucky, how much he enjoys it-

The guy tugs Bucky up by the hair, and immediately Bucky is plastered to his body again, hand traveling wherever it can touch, slipping up underneath the guy’s t-shirt, tongue in his mouth. 

The guy pulls back. “Fuck me.” He reaches down and touches Bucky’s cock, less like he’s jerking him off and more like a caress. “Come on, you promised.” 

Bucky laughs, lets his eyes go heavy-lidded, smile turned up at one corner. Steve feels a flush of heat, feels ashamed of it, but that only makes the sensation stronger. He closes his eyes. 

“Yeah? You want my cock, baby?” Bucky teases, and it’s those ridiculous, over-the-top pornstar words that make a bolt of arousal go straight to Steve’s cock, almost painful. 

The backpacker laughs. “Fuck me now or get lost, Barnes. I’m not begging.” 

Bucky gives him one last kiss, reaching around to grab his ass and squeeze it before turning him around. 

“You got a condom?” The guy asks, and Bucky pulls one from his pocket in a bright plastic wrapper, wiggles it so the guy can see. 

“Mhm,” he says, running his hand over the guy’s lower back, squeezing his ass again. His fingers are shiny with lube; there’s a little packet in his hand with the condom. 

The guy groans and leans his forehead against the tree, spreads his legs in a way that has Steve looking away. He really shouldn’t be here. He should’ve left as soon as he realized. 

Bucky is sliding one finger into the guy’s ass, while he murmurs into his ear, something Steve can’t hear. He’s crowded up against the guy’s back, like he’s touching him as much as possible. Steve can see it when he bites the side of the guy’s neck, slides a second finger in. 

The guy is making all kinds of noises now, shuffles his feet and presses back like he doesn’t know what to do, says something to Bucky that makes him smile crookedly again. 

Bucky fists his own cock, rolls down the condom and covers it with lube, lines up and presses in slowly while the guy makes a choked off noise. He moves just a little bit, fucks just the tip of his cock in and out while the guy moves his hips backwards, lets Bucky hold him there. 

Suddenly, Bucky fucks his cock all the way in, and the guy cries out. 

The noise slips from Steve’s chest before he realizes it; a punched-out groan. He freezes, but they don’t seem to have heard, too caught up in what they’re doing. 

The guy pushes back onto Bucky’s cock, nods frantically, lets Bucky cover his mouth with his hand when he cries out again, arches his back and closes his eyes. 

This would be a good time to leave, Steve thinks, steps carefully backwards, his eyes on them the whole way. Bucky’s eyes are half-closed now, intent, focused. Steve can hear the wet slap of them fucking, surprisingly loud, as if the noise echoes in the quiet forest. 

He’s made it a couple steps back down the trail when Bucky’s head turns, and Steve freezes. 

Bucky is looking straight at him, his smile sly and knowing. He laughs out loud, and Steve can’t help it. 

He runs. 

*

“Hey, Steve?” George calls from the register. 

“Yeah?” Steve flips the burger over, looks up over the counter. There are only a handful of guests left, but they’ve got about half an hour before close.

“Can you cover for me?” George inclines his head towards the bathroom. 

“Sure,” Steve eyes the burger. 

George nods and wanders off, and nearly simultaneously Brock Rumlow strides into the June Bug. He pauses and looks around, gaze settling on Steve. 

Oh hell. 

Steve glances over surreptitiously while Brock looks through the prepared foods section, chooses a sandwich, and goes over to the cash register. 

“I’ll be right there,” Steve calls. He flips the burger onto a plate. 

“Can’t wait all day,” Brock yells, loud enough that all the customers look at Steve. “Shouldn’t you have a cashier?”

“Yeah, just,” Steve turns off all the pilot lights. “Had to turn off the stove,” he puts on his best polite smile. “Can’t have a grease fire.” 

Brock doesn’t seem mollified by this, practically hopping in place. When Steve swipes his badge to open the register, Brock’s hand shoots out and grabs his. Startled, Steve drops the badge, and Brock picks it up. 

Steve freezes, schools his expression until it’s carefully neutral. Brock examines the badge, leans forward as if he’s reading something. 

“Hey, you’ve got a sticker,” Brock plucks at it, smiles. “Why’d you do that? Put a sticker right there?” He points to the spot. 

Steve shrugs. “Maybe I like stickers.” He snatches the badge back, and Brock laughs. 

“That thing you did, trying to pin that money shit on me,” Brock leaned in, dropped his voice. “I know it was you. Don’t even try that look. Like, who, me?” Brock pitches his voice high, leans back and chuckles. “You don’t know what you just started. Don’t think you can play ball with me and win.” He hands Steve his credit card, and Steve swipes it. 

“Will that be all?” Steve says carefully.

Brock nods. “For now. See you around, Steve. That’s your name, right?” He leans back, pushes the weight of his body off the register. 

George comes back in, gives Steve a puzzled look as Brock walks away. 

“What was that?” 

“I have no idea,” Steve says. He goes back to get the burger, puts fries on the side and brings it out to the customer. 

Then he goes to the reception, where Peggy shoots a glance at him, wide-eyed. She nods to the door behind her that leads to the housekeeping area. 

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” she says, biting her lip. “I didn’t think he’d think it was you. I just, I needed him to leave Angie alone.” 

“It’s ok,” Steve reaches out, touches her shoulder and lets it go. “What happened?”

She let out a breath. “Brock takes the money from the lodge every day and brings it back to the Majestic. I’ve had my suspicions, but I didn’t review the records until yesterday. The amount I counted isn’t the same that makes it into the official record. He’s been pocketing money, Steve. A lot of it. And I think he’s been doing it for a long time.”

“Nice catch, Pegs,” Steve says, impressed. 

She breathes out. “I thought, if I reported, he’d be fired. I was wrong. And now he thinks, since you have access to the registers-“ 

“He thinks I reported him,” Steve says glumly. That would make sense. He hates the guy more than he hates emptying the grease pan. 

“I’m so sorry,” Peggy sighs. “I can tell him-“

“No, don’t you dare,” Steve says. “You’ve only got three months to go. And you’ve got to think about Angie.” 

Peggy looked away. “But you-“

“I’ll be fine,” Steve says firmly. “Come on, we have to get back to work,” he gestures to the door.

“Yes, alright,” Peggy looks unhappy, but she allows it. 

Steve finishes through the end of his evening shift, and when he steps outside he can smell the pot. Barnes is smoking again. He tries to edge away quietly, but Barnes starts talking.

“I can tell it’s you. You breathe different than anyone else.” The joint is between his fingers, a thin trail of smoke. 

“I have, uh, asthma,” Steve says. He starts walking past Barnes, but he keeps talking. 

“Two consenting adults, Rogers,” he says, and Steve feels his heart start to pound. 

“Uh, what?” Steve thinks his ears are ringing. 

Bucky laughs. “You know, for someone who’s so offended by gay shit, it’s sort of weird that you’d follow someone into the woods to watch him fuck. You know?”

“I didn’t,” Steve can feel himself flushing bright pink. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I was kind of worried you’d gotten lost out there. It’s dangerous to go out alone, especially at night.” His tone sounds defensive, but he can’t help it. It seemed so reasonable at the time. 

Bucky turns and looks at him, laughs out loud. “You know, I actually believe that, coming from you.” He pats the bench next to him. “Sit down, Rogers. Try not to have a heart attack.”

Steve sits, thinks over Bucky’s words. “Why would you think- I wasn’t offended.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Look, it’s fine. Lots of guys have weird repressed shit. You don’t have to do the whole,” he waves a hand in the air, “redefine your sexuality panic.” 

Steve blinks. Oh. “I’m- not straight,” he says. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Look, I want to be sympathetic about the panic thing, but I’m really not good at it. Sam is really-“ 

“No, I mean,” Steve rephrases. “I’m queer. I’ve- that doesn’t bother me.” 

Bucky takes a long drag from the joint. “Huh.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says awkwardly. “So, um. Sorry. I really didn’t mean to be so, creepy. I just kind of got caught there, and I didn’t really. Know what to do.” 

Bucky snorts. “Eh, whatever. Kind of liked being watched. It was hot.” He shakes his head, long hair swaying in the low light. “Where’d they dig you up from, Rogers?” 

“Huh?” Steve gives him an odd look. 

“Where’re you from?” Bucky’s looking at him, and Steve feels like he can see right through him. 

“Midwest. Are you from New York?” 

“Brooklyn, born and raised,” Bucky says proudly. “So, what’s your story?” 

“What?” Steve stiffens. 

Bucky breathes out smoke. “I’m tryna make friends. This is the part where I ask you about yourself.” 

“Oh,” Steve flushes. “I, um, I want to work for the USGS. Be a cartographer. I’ve been taking classes, but you can skip some of the reqs if you have relevant work experience. So, I’m trying to get my foot in the door.” 

“As a cook?” Bucky asks. It isn’t judgemental, just curious. 

“Only job I was qualified for. I’ve done it before, uh, other places. Used to cooking for large groups. And when I have a day off, I volunteer. Trail maintenance. So I can-“

“Got it. Then you get another job here. Stupid question- what’s a cartographer do?”

“Well, maps. Mapmaking, scouting. With the National Park Service, preservation, mostly. Um, some people are tracking the effects of climate change. Like, they think there won’t be any glaciers left in Glacier National Park by 2030.” 

“Didn’t know people still made maps as a job,” Bucky reflected. “Guess that makes sense. You just use technology, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve allowed. “But you still have to hike out places. Look at the land. Even drones can’t get through heavily forested areas, really see what’s happening on the ground.” 

“That’s pretty cool,” Bucky says. 

“What about you?” Steve looks at him. 

“Me? I’m just fucking around. Needed a job. Thought this might be a nice change of pace. I like all the open space.” 

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. “It feels freer, out here.”

Bucky looked at him for a long moment. “Yeah. Exactly.” He presses the joint into the dirt, puts it out. “Why cartography?” 

“I like the maps,” Steve answers immediately. “I like- seeing a place on a map with a name like, Mount Desolation, and thinking about what it might look like. Knowing I can follow that road, or that trail, and actually see it. Once you get on the road, you can go anywhere. I used to-“ he stopped, realizing he’d said more than he’d meant to. No one had really asked him that, before. 

Bucky sits quietly, waiting for him to continue. 

“When I was younger, I used to look at maps. Imagine all the places I could be. Once I got out.” 

Bucky nods, looks out at the dark forest. “I used to think about it, too. Kept me sane.” 

“Yes,” Steve says. “I have to, go to sleep. Getting up early tomorrow. I’ve got a couple days off, so I’m gonna do an overnight trip. But,” he stands. “Maybe we can talk more, when I get back?”

“I’d like that,” Bucky nods. “Good night, Steve.” 

“Good night,” Steve feels unmoored, something unquiet he can’t name. It takes him a while to fall asleep, listening to the hiss of the forest outside, so different from the whisper of long grass.


	3. Chapter 3

Every drop of rain on the tin roof of the dorm sounds like a bullet; loud, sharp. There are thousands of them at once, rising in a crescendo then falling as the winds shift. 

Barnes schlepped in like a disgruntled cat about an hour back, hair hanging in wet strings and cot soaked half through. He hasn’t hauled it above Sam, where it would drip dry over his body. Instead, he’s pulled it into the corner, his back pressed up against the wall. 

Steve watches him toss and turn as the rain gets louder, fat drops slamming into the tin, the sound echoing in the open space. He peers down at George in the bunk below him to see if he might play some insomnia War, but George is sound asleep. 

He swings out of his cot and goes to get the deck anyway; insomnia Solitaire is better than staring at the damn ceiling all night. 

Someone makes a muffled cry, and Steve whips around, looking for the source. He can’t tell if it was inside the dorm or not. The rain is too loud, and it’s too dark to see more than a couple feet in front of himself. 

A few seconds pass, and he doesn’t hear the noise again. It’s possible there’s a mountain lion somewhere on the grounds, looking for scraps. Or more likely, he reins in his imagination, someone stubbed a toe in the dark. 

He’s gotten his cards from his locker when he hears it again, louder this time. Some guys are shifting in their cots, springs squeaking. Trying to ignore it, fall back asleep. 

There’s a low moan, and Steve follows it across the room. As he gets closer, he can hear panting, like someone’s been out running. 

The yell takes Steve by surprise; he starts running towards the noise, and realizes it’s Barnes, way off in the corner. He’s not sitting up or doubled over in pain. It looks like he’s still asleep, and Steve hovers, unsure what he should do. He’s already more than crossed boundaries with this guy, no matter how gracious he was about it. 

A couple other guys mutter and roll over in their cots, annoyed. Steve hears a squeak of cot springs, footsteps on the floor. He recognizes the shape approaching; it’s Sam, the other utilities guy that works with Barnes. 

Sam stumbles a bit in the dark before he crouches down by Barnes’ side. 

“Hey,” he says, sleep making his voice thick. “Barnes. Wake up.” 

Barnes is talking now, words Steve can’t make out. He’s tossing and turning on the cot. Steve can hear the wet squelch of the mattress. 

“Bucky,” Sam reaches out, shakes his shoulder lightly. 

It happens so fast that Steve has trouble piecing the memory together later. One moment, Sam is crouched above Barnes, the next he’s on the floor, Barnes’ hand wrapped around his throat. 

He knows, logically, that there’s a sequence; Barnes wakes up, Barnes flips Sam to the floor. But the movement is so fluid, automatic. Sam is above Barnes, then he’s below him, Barnes’ arm extended, hand over his throat. The blanket on the floor in a crumpled heap. 

And Barnes… doesn’t have another arm. There’s his right hand, with Sam very still beneath it, and the left shoulder is a stump, empty air. Something metallic flashes there in the low light. 

Barnes is frozen now, too, stares at Sam with blank eyes. He’s still panting like he ran a few miles. Steve’s not even sure he’s really awake yet. 

Barnes reels back, and time seems to resume. He’s stumbling back into the corner, pulling the blanket over his torso. He reaches his right hand out as if to touch Sam in apology, pulls it back like he’s been burned. Watches Sam with big eyes behind the wet strands of hair. 

Sam rolls up to his feet in a fluid movement, shakes himself a little. 

“Are you- I’m sorry. Sorry. Fuck,” Bucky reaches out a tentative hand again. 

Sam shakes his head, pats Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m fine, man. Sure as hell awake now, though.”

Bucky looks around at the dorm, his hand unconsciously tugging at the blanket over his left shoulder. His gaze falls on Steve. 

Steve immediately starts fiddling with his deck of cards, making a show of it- look, I was just getting the cards from my locker. Not watching you, or anything.

He retreats as quietly as he can, climbs back up into his bunk. His brain starts running the hamster wheel, and he’s probably not going to sleep at all tonight. 

_What happened to Barnes’ arm? A car accident or something, probably. That’s usually how that happens, right? But how didn’t he notice it before?_ He flips through the deck of memories, that first night with Barnes flipping the mop between his hands and laughing. _He always wears long sleeves. Maybe it’s a prosthetic?_

If it is, it’s a damn nice one. The hand had looked like skin; he’s never seen a prosthetic that realistic before. _He’s got to be rich, to afford something like that. Or his parents are, anyway. But then what’s he doing working here?_ Maybe he’s pissed off his parents. What if he was driving drunk, or something? It had to have been a pretty bad crash. 

Steve imagines a car crashing through a metal rail, careening down the side of a hill. Swerving into oncoming traffic. Wrapping around a tree like a pretzel. _That’d be enough to give someone nightmares._

Surprisingly, he falls asleep like that, deck of cards still in his hands and mind spinning. 

*

“Didn’t sleep?” George laughs as Steve tries to cover a loud yawn with his elbow. 

“I did,” Steve replies. “For like, an hour.” 

“You’re almost there, boss,” George shuts the register. 

_Boss_ , Steve thinks. He’s heard guys say it to kids, but he’s also heard it yelled at construction sites. Heck, it’s better than champ. He gets that all the time, before he opens his mouth and starts talking. He looks about fifteen, but the deep voice throws people. 

“You’re almost there,” Steve says with a rueful grin. “I’ve got a few more hours.”

About an hour later, Sam and Bucky shuffle in, fucking around and wisecracking like usual. At least they’re not doing their weird masc stuff, like Barnes bragging about whoever he’s fucked this week or trying to sneak up behind Sam and tap his balls with his broom handle. Sam’s weirdly chill about it, which baffles him. Steve wonders if Peggy could explain it. Sometimes, it seems like she takes one look at a person and knows everything about them. Steve thinks _I’d give my left arm for that_ , then winces mentally.

It’s been on his mind. He’s keeps trying surreptitious glances over at Barnes, and he’s pretty sure he just got a look from him. Subtle is not Steve’s specialty. He covers the dough and sets it on top of the warm oven to rise, leaves to go keep Peggy company at the quiet desk. 

Surprisingly, she’s on one of the black corded phones, but she smiles at him to indicate he should stay. She hangs up, and beckons him back behind the closed door of the reception. 

“Hey,” Steve says when the door shuts. “Can I ask you a weird question?” 

Peggy crosses her arms over her chest. “I think I have one for you, first.” 

“Sure,” Steve says, puzzled. 

“Did Brock Rumlow threaten you?” One perfectly shaped eyebrow arches skyward. 

Steve shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.” 

Peggy sighs. “Steven. Of course it is. What did he say?”

“Nothing, Pegs. Some stupid stuff about my ID.”

Peggy looks alarmed. “Your ID?”

“Yeah,” Steve looks away. “Made some stupid crack about my name.”

“Does your badge-“ Peggy starts. 

Steve shakes his head. “No, it has my name on it. But I put a sticker,” he shows her where it covers the bottom right corner, innocuous. Once they got his social security number, no one bothered to keep tabs on him. There were plenty of cots in the men's dorms. It was almost too easy.

“I see,” she frowns. “I don’t like this. I’m not sure how he gained this information.”

Steve shrugs. “He looked at me, probably.” 

Peggy shakes her head. “It’s as if he came in knowing though, isn’t it? And he’s not one of us. Sort of a… muggle, really,” she smiles. 

“What?” Steve blinks. 

“They don’t notice anything? Harry Potter?” Peggy prompts while Steve gives her a blank look. “Surely you’ve seen at least one of the films.”

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “Look, it’s fine. He’s just pissed he didn’t get his way. Wanted to make himself feel big.”

“I wish you’d told me the extent of it,” Peggy says. “I’ve some…friends, who work with Rumlow, who helped me report him. They’re quite concerned that the matter was reported to Director Pierce and never followed up on.”

“That makes sense,” Steve nods. 

“Does it?”

“Seemed like they’d worked together before,” Steve says. “They’re probably in on it together.” 

“That’s what my friends were concerned about,” Peggy nods. “They’re considering how best to proceed. But Steve,” she gives him a serious look. “I don’t think Brock Rumlow is done with us yet. And I’ve been told he’s particularly focused on you as a source of his ire.”

Steve feels a chill run down his spine. “Oh. Great. I’ll just, not sleep ever again, then.” 

Peggy squeezes his shoulder. “We’re working on it, dear. But if he tries to threaten you again, I want you to tell me straight away. With all the facts.”

“Alright,” Steve agrees. 

Peggy nods. “Now, what was your question?”

Steve flushes. “It’s stupid.”

“Out with it,” Peggy smiles. 

“Did you notice, Bucky,” he gestures to his left arm. 

“Has a prosthetic arm,” Peggy nods. “Yes. But it seemed impolite to draw attention,” she gave Steve a look. 

Of course Peggy had known. “He attacked Sam last night. In his sleep.” 

“Oh dear,” Peggy frowns. “Poor lad. Though it isn’t terribly surprising.” 

“It isn’t?” Steve asks. 

“Barnes has begun recycling his PJ jokes, so I assume they’ve both served. They have a sort of military air about them, don’t you think?”

“I just thought they were sort of,” Steve grimaces, waves a hand. 

“Adolescent male,” Peggy snorts. “It tends to come with the territory, in my experience.” 

“In your experience?” Steve looks at her. 

“Darling,” Peggy says, not unkindly. “I don’t think I’ll pull on that thread, at the moment. I ought to get back to the desk.” 

Steve makes a quick comment about the pies in the oven, even bothers to walk over and check on them even though he knows they have about a half hour left. 

He wanders over to the computer room, exhausted and struggling to stay awake. The lines of posts in the forum blur on the screen, and he rubs at his eyes. He pulls up another tab, stares for a moment at the Google home page. 

What was it that Pierce had said? 

He types in Barnes and gets thousands of results; landmarks, homes, a brand of jam. Estelle Barnes, Jim Barnes- 

_James._ Bucky, short for- 

James Buchanan Barnes, Steve types into the search bar, and hits enter. He feels a bit guilty, even as he does it, looks back over his shoulder to the closed door of the computer room. 

His cursor hovers on the red x in the upper right hand corner. This is an invasion of privacy, probably. Steve, if anyone, should know that people are entitled to their secrets. 

If he just glances at the page- if he doesn’t know the whole story-

 _POW James Buchanan Barnes Reunited with Family_ , the first headline reads, and Steve gapes. There’s the soft whir of the old computer tower, LED’s pulsing as it runs. 

_Man Held Captive by Terrorists, Assumed Dead, Found in Raid._

_POW Held for Three Years To Be Given Prosthetic Arm by Stark Foundation._

Steve clicks on the first link, has a sudden image of David watching Bathesheba bathe on the rooftop. He shouldn’t be looking at this. 

There’s a picture at the top of the article, and immediately Steve wishes he could go back, unsee it. 

There’s a man staring blankly into the camera, long scraggly beard and hollow eyes. He’s a big guy, but he looks skinny, malnourished. His skin is sallow and concave under high cheekbones, jaw prominent. His left sleeve hangs empty. 

_Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, presumed dead in a firefight in an undisclosed location in Eastern Afghanistan, was found- ___

__Steve’s watch goes off, and he jumps. He exits out of the tabs, double checks, then powers the computer down._ _

__When he goes back to take the pies out of the oven, Barnes is aiming a rubber band he picked off the floor at Wilson’s head. Steve thinks his aim is a little off, but the rubber band hits Wilson’s ear. He jumps and chases Barnes outside onto the porch, out of Steve’s range of vision._ _

__Barnes is smoking again when Steve calls it a night.  The smell is thick around him, and he looks exhausted, his hair tangled, eyes shadowed._ _

__"Hey, Steve," Bucky says without turning to look at him._ _

__For a moment, both images exist side-by-side; Barnes smoking pot on the deck, hair hanging to cover his face.  The man with grey skin and hollow eyes, staring past the camera.  Barnes watching the forest, breathing out._ _

__There's a moment of silence where Steve realizes he should've answered, but it's too late now to cover it._ _

__Barnes turns to look at him, friendly smile slipping when he sees Steve's expression.  "Sorry for waking you up, last night."_ _

__"You didn't," Steve says quickly.  "I couldn't sleep."_ _

__"Hm," Bucky says noncommittally, watching Steve approach from the corner of his eye._ _

__Steve sits, quiet, as Barnes breathes the smoke into his lungs.  He's not good at this.  The right words are elusive; he's better at finding the wrong ones._ _

__Barnes sighs.  "Wish I could tell myself you were just staring at my lips."_ _

__Steve can feel himself flushing.  "What if I was?" he challenges, liking the pulse of adrenaline that follows._ _

__Barnes chokes a little on the smoke, exhales loud laughter.  "Well," he looks Steve up and down, and slow scan that makes his breath catch.  "Just say the word, Rogers.  You know I'm easy."_ _

__Steve can't name the feeling in his fingers, jittery and restless.  He swallows.  Barnes flirts with everyone.  Get a grip. "Why'd you come out here, anyway?"_ _

__"Hm?" Barnes asks, distracted by the change in subject._ _

__"I told you my story," Steve says, and the words feel like a sin.  "What's yours?"_ _

__Bucky raises his eyebrows.  The left arm shifts, and now that Steve's looking he notices the inorganic motion, the rigidity when Bucky presses his palm into the deck._ _

__"Needed a job," Bucky shrugs.  "Wanted one where I wasn't cooped up inside all day.  And my friend, Sam," he gestures towards the dorms, "thought it was a good idea."_ _

__"I didn't realize you were friends.  I mean, before you came here," Steve says._ _

__Bucky nods.  "Past three years, and he still hasn't gotten rid of me."_ _

__"Did you work together?  In the military?"_ _

__Barnes smiles like this is a funny question, and maybe it is, because Steve knows fuck all about the military.  "Not exactly," he says.  "You could say we met in Afghanistan, though.  Sadly, my first impression wasn't enough to separate him from his heterosexuality."_ _

__Steve snorts.  "It everything you hoped it would be?"  He gestures to the lodge._ _

__"What?" Bucky frowns._ _

__"The job.  Seems like you mostly work inside, anyway."_ _

__"It's fine."  The paper is burned nearly down to Bucky's fingers.  The pads of his thumb and pointer finger are calloused, and Steve realizes he's never seen the left hand up close.  Bucky tends to let it hang by his side, tuck it into his pocket._ _

__"I thought," Bucky says suddenly, "that I'd figure something out.  Being out here.  But it's just the same as everywhere else, isn't it?"  He stubs out the rest of the joint, as if he just noticed the heat on his fingers.  "I'm a dumb bastard, right?  Watched too many movies."_ _

__"No," Steve says, surprising himself with how sure he sounds.  "Makes sense to me.  And how do you know for sure, if you haven't been out to see it?"_ _

__"What?"_ _

__Steve gestures out to the forest.  "You can't just stay down here, and expect to figure out anything different."_ _

__"I've gone out with Sam, a couple times," Bucky shrugs.  "Not much different from going for a run in the city."_ _

__Steve shakes his head vigorously.  "You're not doing it right."_ _

__Bucky looks up at him through his lashes.  "I always do it right."_ _

__"Ugh," Steve sighs, but he's smiling.  "Do you gotta?"_ _

__"No," Bucky smiles, "but you're such an easy target."  He leans back.  "Tell me then, Rogers.  How do I do it right?"_ _

__"Come with me," Steve says before he's thought it through enough to take the words back.  "I've got Wednesday off."_ _

__"You sure?" Bucky looks surprised.  "I'd have to be back for a night shift."_ _

__"Yeah," Steve says.  "No problem."_ _

__*_ _

__It's a problem.  It's a big goddamn problem._ _

__Steve can't wear his binder and hike up a damn mountain.  His ribs are a little achy as it is, not to mention the muscles in spasm on his back.  He can get about half a deep breath with the binder on, and that competing with the sharp incline and the oxygen at this elevation might actually crack a rib.  Or at least give him some really impressive bruises._ _

__He puts on two sports bras and a baggy t-shirt, heavy cotton.  Steps out of the bathroom stall and hunches as he grabs the shirt and wiggles it so it won't stick._ _

_Does this shirt make me look flat?_ , he thinks, and can’t stop the slightly hysterical laugh. Oh no.  This was a terrible idea.  Since when did he invite cis men to go with him, alone, several hours into the wilderness? And Jesus, Barnes was in the military. He did a pretty good display the other night of how he could break Steve like a toothpick without breaking a sweat.

___So what if he finds out?_ There’s no way he can find out his birth name now, no way to track him. And the part of Steve that's annoyed with always having to be afraid, having to watch his pitch and his mannerisms and if he's scowling enough._ _

__(Really, scowling has kept him from getting clocked.  It's one of those weird things people read as masc.)_ _

__On the other hand, he really needs this job.  He shouldn’t risk it, not for anything. He wonders if they would fire him outright.  There's nothing really stopping them.  Experience tells him it would go something like this:_ _

___We're sorry, we just can't accommodate your needs.  Two dorms, two bathrooms.  It's an undue burden on the staff.  It makes the guests uncomfortable.  We just don't know how to deal with people like you._ _ _

__He can't get fired for this, not when he's so close to blending forever.  Surgery, then he can get the gender marker changed.  No one has to know. No one can find him._ _

__Maybe he should call it off.  Can he still get out of it?  Maybe Barnes is still asleep, and Steve can just let him stay there.  That would be easiest.  He feels a sense of relief at this, the anxiety dissipating at once._ _

__Barnes' cot is back in the dorm, and it's empty._ _

__Barnes is queer, Steve tries to keep the anxiety from flaring again.  Not gay, either, but queer.  He probably wouldn't roll on Steve.  Not intentionally, anyway._ _

__Barnes is sitting on the porch.  It's early; the lodge and cabin guests aren't up yet, but some of the thru hikers are at the bus stop. His hair is tied up in a bun, but he's playing nervously with some shorter strands that have fallen out around his face.  He's wearing a t-shirt for the first time that Steve's seen, and the left sleeve is empty.  He seems to notice Steve, raises his right hand, then drops it quickly.  He looks unsure of what to do next; Steve thinks belatedly that he probably looks surprised.  He never had much of a poker face._ _

__He feels ridiculous, all at once.  Barnes, report him?  The guy has sex with guests in the woods.  Steve needs to get a grip on the paranoia._ _

__"You're up," Steve says, and Barnes gives him a tentative smile._ _

__"Someone told me it was dangerous to hike alone."_ _

__Steve flushes bright red.  Damn Irish blood._ _

__They take the bus out to the trailhead in silence, joining the other hikers who are gazing out the window as the sun rises over the cliffs and spills into the valley.  The trail, when they reach it, doesn't have any cars parked in the small lot.  It's one of the longer day hikes, too strenuous for most tourists._ _

__Bucky hikes up the switchbacks with the practiced ease of a man used to staying in shape.  Steve is surprised; most other forms of exercise, even strenuous ones, don't really prepare you for hiking.  The rapid elevation climb, the thin air for someone raised on the coast, the demand for endurance over the course of hours._ _

__"This is nice," Bucky says, and Steve realizes he's so accustomed to being alone that he'd forgotten to talk._ _

__"Wait for the payoff," Steve replies.  "The guide says it's a bald summit."_ _

__"What's that mean?" Bucky asks, and Steve is off on a rant about treeless summits and 360 views, ridge hikes and lookouts._ _

__Bucky is smiling a little by the time Steve runs out of breath, and Steve is embarrassed to realize how much he's rambled._ _

__"Sorry," he says.  "I don't usually... talk."_ _

__"It's fine," Bucky says easily.  "I like how much you like it."_ _

__"What's New York like?" Steve asks, giving Bucky the opportunity to talk for a bit.  "I've never been."_ _

__"You should visit," Bucky says immediately.  "It's better than the hype.  Just don't block the sidewalks."_ _

__Steve laughs.  "If it's so great, why'd you come all the way out here?"_ _

__"Needed some space.  Brooklyn's too expensive to get my own place, now that all the yuppies snapped it up.  There's this shop that's just for different kinds of olive oil, 'bout a block from my parents."  He pauses.  "They worried about me, after the uh, accident."  Bucky peers through the forest; they're just passing the first lookout point.   "And it isn't right, you know?  They raised their kids.  They should have some space to themselves.  Not have to take care of me."_ _

__"You have siblings?" Steve asks._ _

__"Yeah, my sister.  Becca.  She's a junior at NYU," he says proudly.  "Covered her tuition, with what the army gave me."_ _

__Bucky's back pay, Steve realizes, and feels horribly guilty.  Three years of it._ _

Maybe he should tell Bucky he knows. _Hey, I googled you. There are about a hundred articles about that time you were held captive and tortured. That must’ve sucked._

__"You got any?"_ _

__"What?" Steve says, a little too loudly._ _

__"Siblings."_ _

__"Oh, yeah," Steve says automatically, still reeling.  "A lot of 'em."_ _

__Bucky smiles.  "Bet that was nice.  Big happy family.  Like the Brady Bunch, or something."_ _

__Steve hums noncommittally.  He has no idea what that is, or if he should agree with it._ _

__"You see your parents often?"_ _

__"No," Steve says.  He needs to steer this conversation before he starts getting twitchy.  "They're.   They're gone."_ _

And they are.  For him, anyway.   _Apostate._

__"I'm sorry to hear that," Bucky says, sounding genuinely compassionate.  "Don't know what I would've done without my folks."_ _

__"Yeah," Steve trails off, uncomfortable.  "It's fine, really.  I've got this," he gestures to the forest._ _

__Bucky looks at him for a long moment, then goes quiet.  They hike another couple hours in near silence, listening to the birds, the breeze through the trees.  At one point, they cross a stream, which delights Bucky, and Steve feels warmed by the obvious novelty of it for him._ _

__An hour later, the treelike abruptly stops, and they emerge onto a large, rocky peak.  There's no gentle transition of ledges and lookouts, just the muffled cover of forest and light through green leaves, then bare rock and a high wind._ _

__Steve turns back to look at Bucky, and isn't disappointed._ _

__"Oh, wow," Bucky gapes, scrambling up over boulders to stand at the very top.  He turns to look north, south, west, loose hair streaming in the wind and grinning broadly._ _

__"Yeah," Steve sits down on a neighboring boulder, shrugs off his pack and pulls out his water.  He closes his eyes for a minute, feels the wind on his face, thinks about the sheer drop into the valley below.  The spread of the mountains around him.  The way the air smells, sharp pine, the warm granite under his hands in the midday sun._ _

__"Freedom," Bucky drops his voice.  "Caw caw, motherfuckers."_ _

__"'Muricah," Steve barks, then looks quickly over to Bucky, who has dropped to sit down beside him, leaning back casually on one arm._ _

__Bucky notices him looking.  "You haven't asked about it."_ _

__Steve shrugs.  "I figure it's your business to tell me about it if you want to."_ _

__"Thanks," Bucky says, looking out at the valley.  "People usually get offended, you know.  If I don't tell them.  Like they're owed my goddamn life story."_ _

__"They're not," Steve says quickly.  "They didn't earn it."_ _

__Bucky lays down on his back, closes his eyes, basking in the sun with a smile on his face.  "I like that."_ _

__Bucky starts waiting up for Steve at the end of his shifts.  He tells Steve he smokes because the arm still hurts; phantom pain.  Wearing the prosthetic makes it fade, sometimes, like stretching a cramping muscle.  But the prosthetic bruises his shoulder up, and he has to take breaks.  It's also a lot of strain on his neck and shoulder muscles, headaches creeping their way upward._ _

__Steve tells him about his first job as a cook at a diner in Kansas City, about raising his brothers and sisters and shooting bottles in the backyard.  He doesn't think he's ever talked this much in his life, and he's surprised to find he likes it.  Barnes is easy company, and listens as well as he talks.  Sometimes Steve gets the impression he just likes the company, notices how he lights up when Steve joins him._ _

__Steve has gotten so used to the relaxed rhythm of his days, the sense of some fragile safety and even a kind of happiness, that he isn't ready for it when the other shoe drops._ _

__Rumlow lurking around the June Bug again today, he looks happy, which is even more frightening than his usual scowl._ _

They're closing for lunch, and Steve tells George he's taking a break before he starts dinner prep.  He turns off the lights in the kitchen, takes the beef out of the freezer to thaw, turns off the stove.

He doesn't want to use the larger bathrooms closer to the kitchen, because he can imagine Rumlow cornering him in a stall.  Peggy has just started her shift, and he waves to her as he slips into the corridor with the staff bathrooms. 

__When he heads back through the lobby, Rumlow is leaving the June Bug.  He gives Steve a broad smirk, and Steve feels his stomach drop._ _

__As far back as Steve can remember, he could sense when something bad was about to happen.  Tension in a room, his dad getting ready to pull his belt on one of the kids if Steve didn't quiet them down first.  He remembers seeing tornadoes break over the plains, always off in the distance.  The green tint of the sky, the birds gone quiet, the roar of wind like a freight train._ _

__George isn't at the register, gone to take his break outside._ _

__The kitchen is on fire._ _

__In the second Steve takes to react, the grease fire has grown like a living thing, as wild as any twister.  The alarms start blaring._ _

__Steve runs headlong into the fire, black smoke starting to rise.  It's dark; the lights are still off.  He slams the metal lid down on the fryer, because if the fire reaches it the building's gone.  It's still contained to the stove._ _

__He reaches blindly for the bucket of baking soda next to the stove, upends it over the flames.  They slow for a minute, but they've caught on the wood walls above the backsplash.  Steve kicks the cabinet open and grabs the fire extinguisher, stomach plummeting as he presses the trigger._ _

__The fire flickers out in a trail of black smoke.  He stumbles out of the kitchen, coughing._ _

__"Steve?" Peggy runs into the dining room, heels clicking.  It must have been only seconds since the alarm started blaring.  It's still going, guests milling out into the grounds, staring into the June Bug, curious._ _

__"Rumlow," Steve coughs out._ _

__"Come," Peggy puts an arm around his shoulder and herds him back into the staff corridor._ _

__Steve feels like he's choking.  He can't catch his breath.  His wheezing picks up, high and panicked.  He can't breathe._ _

__"Take it off," Peggy orders, and Steve turns around, pulls the binder over his head in a flurry of panic._ _

__He breathes in, and his lungs start to calm.   It's a long moment before he slips his shirt back on, turns to stare at Peggy._ _

__"I had to use the fire extinguisher," he says dully._ _

__"The fire was fairly contained," she says, confident.  "You put it out rather quickly, considering.  There might be some cosmetic damage to the walls, but surely the metal can be-"_ _

__"The kitchen's contaminated," Steve covers his face with his hands, tries to keep drawing steady breaths.  "It'll be expensive.  I turned it off, Peggy.  I'd never leave the stove on."_ _

__"I know," Peggy says.  "I can say I saw him leaving."_ _

__"You know that won't work," Steve can feel tears sting at the corners of his eyes.  "Damn it.  I was doing so well.  Everything was- I should've known better.  I shouldn't have turned my back."_ _

__"Steven," Peggy says firmly.  "The fault here lies with the perpetrator.  Not with you."_ _

__Steve laughs.  "I wish.  I wish it worked that way."_ _

__Steve is called in directly to Pierce's office that evening.  The June Bug isn't open, anyway; they'll have to wait for someone to decontaminate it tomorrow._ _

__When Steve gets back, Peggy and Angie are waiting up.  Their faces fall when they see him; Angie looks like she might cry._ _

__"I'm sorry," she says, her voice wavering.  "If I hadn't-"_ _

__Steve shakes his head.  "It's not your fault Rumlow's a creep, Ang."_ _

__"Did they fire you?" Peggy asks, crisp._ _

__"No," Steve says dully._ _

__Peggy gives him a tentative smile.  "Well that's something, isn't it?  Perhaps it isn't as bad as you feared."_ _

__"I have to recoup the cost of the decontamination and repairs.  George agreed to supervise me during grill hours."_ _

_Accidents happen_ , Pierce patted him on the shoulder.   _Since the damage isn’t irreparable, this falls under our two strike policy. I just hope you've learned your lesson._

__Steve hears Bucky approaching behind him, doesn't bother turning to look at him.  "There was a note, in the fridge."  He pulls the crumpled paper from his pocket._ _

_STOP LOOKING._

__"We can't let them do this," Bucky says, sounding angrier than Steve's ever heard him.  His shoulders up, feet planted, Bucky looks like someone to be afraid of._ _

__"It's all my savings," Steve says.  "It took me years.  I was so close."_ _

__"Your surgery money," Peggy breathes, understanding, then freezes.  She gives Steve an apologetic look._ _

__"Yeah, uh," Steve coughs, trying to look sick.  It's not hard, scrawny as he is on a good day, and this isn't a good day._ _

"Top surgery, right?" Bucky says, and Steve freezes, heart pounding. 

"How long?  How long have you- it was the hike, wasn't it?" Steve says bitterly.  Score one, paranoia. 

__Bucky nods.  "My sister has asthma.  Her breathing sure as hell didn't get better hiking up mountains.  And I realized, that way you breathe the rest of the time- it’s only halfway."_ _

__"Jesus," Steve says, and it feels good to use it as an expletive.  "Were you a spy, or something?"_ _

__"Sniper," Bucky corrects.  "I grew up in Brooklyn, Steve.  You're not the first trans person I've met."_ _

__Steve looks around the empty lobby.  "Keep your voice down."_ _

__"Sorry," Bucky moves in closer, drops his voice so just the three of them can hear.  "You can fight this," he looks Steve in the eye.  "We can nail these fuckers to the wall.  They wouldn't threaten us if they weren't scared."_ _

__Steve shakes his head.  "They'll just fire me.  Look," he holds up a hand when Bucky opens his mouth.  "I appreciate it, but let me handle it on my own."_ _

__"I get it," Bucky says.  "Steve Rogers, charging up literal damn mountains by himself, right?  I've seen lots of guys take that path, and I gotta say I've never seen it turn out real good."_ _

__"I'm not- don't talk to me like I'm fucking crazy," Steve snaps._ _

__"I am.  I'd be dead," Bucky cuts him off.  "If it weren't for Sam.  Or my parents.  Guys who leave, don't talk to their units anymore, pretend like everything's normal, they end up dead.  I don't know what your deal is, but if you try to do this lone ranger shit, you'll just be an easier target."_ _

__Steve steps into Barnes' space.  He doesn't give a damn if the guy's six foot of muscle.  He wants to break his stupid nose.  "Fight it?  With what, my fists?  What the fuck do you know.  This wouldn't've happened if I'd just kept to myself.  Kept my mouth shut," his voice breaks, and he hates it, he hates it, has been careful not to do that since he started T, and god, he doesn't even think he'll be able to afford his hormones now._ _

__"Steve," Bucky says gently, and Steve realizes with a flush of shame that he's crying._ _

__"Come on," Bucky leans down, wraps him in a one-armed hug.  "I do know.  I know it's hard to ask for help.  But you don't have to do this alone."_ _

__"Yes," Peggy says.  "I think I'd enjoy, as Barnes eloquently put it, nailing that fucker to the wall.  He deserves no less."_ _

__"I'm sure I've killed better people than him," Bucky says, running a palm over Steve's hair._ _

__Steve hasn't moved, just tries to get the angry tears under control before he looks back up.  He looks over at Peggy, doesn't make eye contact with Bucky, embarrassed._ _

__"Pierce," he says.  "He's pulling the strings.  If we want this to work, we have to cut off the snake's head."_ _

__"Yes," Peggy smiles.  "Steven, did you know Pierce's home is serviced by our utilities workers?  If we could manage a little, electricity problem-"_ _

__“Miss Carter,” Bucky flirts, delighted. “And here I thought recon wasn’t a transferable skill.”_ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this week. send good vibes for all day phd interviews, y'all. cw: stalking, religious fundamentalism, ableist slur

It rains for three days and three nights.  

In the Sierra Nevadas, where great swaths of pines are blackened to ash and bare trunks point crookedly at the sky, it's a minor miracle.

The burnt trees have left no roots to anchor the soil and take in water, and mud slides down the mountains.  Trails are wiped away, and water sits in the lowlands. 

The Yosemite Bug is a swamp.  The pool is closed until further notice, and Bucky and Sam do hourly sweeps of mud on the sidewalks.  

Bucky is soaked down to his underwear despite the garbage bag poncho, and every step squelches on his way to the showers. 

He doesn't sleep.  

He doesn't sleep.  

He- 

Jerks awake.  They've turned the lights on.  He just wants to sleep, he needs to fucking _sleep_ , his body feels like it's falling apart cell by cell.  He makes a sobbing noise through his teeth, and opens his eyes.  

He's in the dorms, sunlight streaming in through thin windows.  Everyone has stopped to stare at him.

He feels tired.  

He gets up to find Sam, helps him pump out groundwater from the basement so the generators aren't killed.  He's too tired for the physical labor, and he's panting as he climbs the stairs, but it quiets his mind to focus on the task. 

It's an endless procession of buckets and checking the wiring in the cabins and unclogging the pumps and-

It's night.  Broom across the floor, mop wrung in the bucket.  He stands up straight, and his back hurts.  The socket of the left shoulder hurts deep, gnawing, radiating up through his neck.  

Peggy is giving him a look, and it takes him a moment to process the meaning.  She wants him to come closer. 

They have an in.  Pierce's generator is down, and he's staying in one of the guest cabins for the night.  Can Bucky-

Yes, he can take a look.  Yes, he'll take pictures of anything that looks notable.  Check for any hiding places- yes, he can do that.  

Pump the water.  Restart the generator.  Test the electricity.  

He takes pictures.  Maps marked in pen, receipts for groceries.  There's nothing obvious, nothing incriminating.  As if someone slick as Pierce would leave a note on his table, _embezzled $5,000 today_.  He’s so tired.  He isn't quite sure he's real.  

He sends the pictures to Peggy.  He hurts, too much to sleep deeply.  He smokes a joint-

He jerks awake.  

"Buck?" Steve's crouched down next to him, eyes wide and worried. 

He's fallen asleep on the porch, sitting up.  His neck is so tense he can barely move it, and he winces, rubs at it with fingers gone cold.  

"Here," Steve puts his fingers on his shoulders, warm and surprisingly strong.  He presses his thumb into the knot of muscle, and Bucky groans, lets his head hang low.  

"Thanks," Bucky tilts his head as Steve's fingers move into the muscles of his neck.  "This fucking rain, it's like a sign of the apocalypse." 

Steve huffs a laugh.  "More like, three days and three nights in the belly of the whale."  His grip moves to the left shoulder, and Bucky sighs in relief.  "The tomb, and the resurrection." 

"You say some weird shit, sometimes."

Bucky dreams of water, seeping, rushing, flooding, the rocking tide, the belly of the whale.  

When he wakes in the morning, there are no clouds.  His body is no longer heavy.  He feels resurrected.  

Peggy says there's nothing in the pictures, but she's working on it.  The news doesn't seem as bad as it was yesterday.  They'll find something.  

That night, Steve is waiting for him in his usual spot on the porch, and he shares a plate of fries while Bucky smokes.  

"How're you holding up?" Bucky asks, a little guilty.  He hasn't asked, hasn't thought about anyone but himself for the past few days. 

Steve tears the fry with his teeth, moody.  "My back fucking hurts.  It wasn't so bad when, you know, I thought I had my magic bullet and I was gonna fix everything."  He shakes his head.  "I should've known better than that by now." 

"Well, I don't know about a magic bullet," Bucky shifts until he's behind Steve's back, puts his hands on his shoulders.  "But I think I owe you one."

"Oh," Steve sounds surprised.  He's tense where Bucky touches him, tense through the whole line of his body.  He doesn't relax into the touch. 

Bucky moves his hands away.  "We don't have to.  Um, but if you're wondering- Stark made me pinch grapes with the metal hand for like, two months.  I won't hurt you with it." 

Steve consciously relaxes his body, lets out a breath.  "Right here," he points to the edge of the scapula.  "Can you-" he hisses when Bucky tucks his fingers in, presses into the spasming muscle.  

"Subscapularis," Bucky winces in sympathy.  "Second least favorite muscle."

Steve laughs, and Bucky feels him relax more into his hands.  Bucky feels warmed by it.  He's gotten used to this routine, this easy thing they have between them.  

"Did a lot of PT," Bucky moves up to Steve's neck, which relaxes into his hold.  He strokes his fingers gently over Steve's temples, over and over in the same pattern until Steve turns to blink up at him, lazy. 

"I bet," he says softly.  Bucky can feel Steve's heart beat hummingbird quick under his fingertips.  The line of his back has relaxed against Bucky's chest.

"Steve," Bucky's fingers pause on his jaw.  He waits for Steve to move away. 

Steve looks up at his lips, uncharacteristically shy, and Bucky leans in.  

Steve doesn't press into Bucky; there's nothing urgent about it, no darting tongue and pent-up need.  It's a new sensation for Bucky, gentle and relaxing, like a warm bath.  He doesn't have to go anywhere in particular.  He likes where he is right now.  

He pulls back, and he can feel Steve's breath catching. 

"That ok?" Bucky checks.  

"Yeah," Steve looks surprised, and Bucky feels himself smile at it.  Steve didn't have much technique, and Bucky thinks the number of people he's kissed is probably pretty low.  Bucky doesn't mind.  It's nice.  He'd do it again.  

"Night, Steve," Bucky gives his shoulders one more squeeze, then lets him sit alone for a bit.

*

"Ma'am- the trail," Steve points to the white blazes, away from the mess of the fall line, a jagged scar of water cut deep into the earth.  He's frowning a little, and Bucky knows it's because he's very protective of the delicate ecological balance he's explained about a hundred times.  Bucky smiles, watching him redirect traffic, wrap a length of rope around the mudslide to close it off.  Steve seems to feel him looking, sees Bucky's grin and gives him a sheepish look.  

Steve bites at his lips; nervous habit.  They are very pink.  Bucky wonders if he'd be angry if he told him his lips were pretty.  

"Buck?" Steve says.  They're out on the upper trail now, and they pass other hikers about every quarter hour.  

"Hmm?" he looks at Steve, looks out at the trees, really seeing them for the first time today.  Too caught up in his head.  

"You've just been quiet, 's all," Steve says, tone casual.  He can take it or leave it for the offer it is.  

"Yeah," Bucky sighs.  "I know I've been a little nuts the past few days.  Sorry.  Should get better soon."

"It's ok," Steve says, patient.  "You don't have to pretend."  He smiles, gestures around.  "Just me and the birds."

Bucky lets his expression fall.  It's still tiring, to mold his face into something less frightening, more emotive.  "Thanks."  He feels grateful for Steve; his easy, quiet presence, the steady empathy Bucky hadn't realized he had.

"I was wrong about you," Bucky fills the silence.

"Oh?" Steve raises an eyebrow.  

"Yeah," Bucky elbows him.  "You're not half as mean as you try to be."

Steve's brow furrows.  "Why would I try to be mean?"

"I don't know," Bucky looks at him, and his tone has turned away from joking.  "You tell me."  

Steve looks away from him.  "You're wrong again.  I just thought you were a bully."

"You talk like you've been living under a rock for the past century," Bucky muses.  "But you know all of this obscure biblical shit-"

"I know how you lost your arm," Steve blurts out, and Bucky stops walking.  

"Funny enough, I know that too," Bucky bites back the sudden wave of confused hurt.  It's so abrupt, the tone simultaneously immature and vicious. _I know what you did in the locker room. I know what you are._ Like Steve's using the knowledge he’s gained as a weapon.  

Steve looks horrified at himself.  "I'm sorry, I don't know why I just-"

"No," Bucky has the reflex to cross his arms over his chest, but only one arm responds to wrap itself around his waist.  "Tell me about it.  What did you find?" He smiles wide.  "You know how many of my teeth are real?  Help me out. Sometimes I don't remember all the parts they carved out of me.  Maybe it's in one of those articles."  

Steve looks afraid of him, and Bucky backs away.  "How long have you known?"

The answer is written all over Steve's face; guilt, shame.  Open book.  

"I'm not your goddamn charity case," Bucky shifts his pack up on his shoulder.  "Go find some other cripple to tell your bible study about."  He turns away and starts heading back down the trail.  He can hear Steve following, jogging to keep up with Bucky's long stride.  

"Wait!" Steve calls, and Bucky ignores him.  "I'm sorry.  I'm not making any excuses.  I know I shouldn't have.  I didn't know how to tell you."

"So you thought you'd just spring it on me, see if I lost my shit?" Bucky doesn't slow down.  

"I didn't mean to-"

"Yes you did," Bucky cuts him off.  

"Yes," Steve says, and Bucky is so startled he looks over to see his expression.  Fear.  "I did."

Bucky stops, and it's like the hurt catches up with him.  The abruptness of it takes him off guard again.  

 _I know._  Like a weapon.  Throw him off, pull him into memory. The smell of his own rotting flesh. Held over him, used against him. 

"You're right," Steve says,fingers gripping the straps of his pack.  "I'm mean.  I'm sorry." 

Bucky sighs.  "Look, I didn't mean to butt in," he gestures to the trail.  "It's ok if you liked doing it better alone.  But you coulda just told me."

"No," Steve steps forward.  "I want you to be here.  I'm just-" he draws in a deep breath, and his hands are shaking.  

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Bucky winces.  Steve is struggling to get the words out , and Bucky feels like one of those guys people cross the street to get away from.  Erratic, yelling at his nightmares. 

Steve shakes his head.  "You got too close.  And I was afraid you'd figure it out.  I usually just, disappear.  But I can't leave here, so I thought, if I was mean, you'd stop asking." 

Steve looks trapped, like the miles of forest aren't enough to free him, and Bucky knows that feeling well.  He thinks about the first day he saw Steve, thinks about the night shift and him keeping to himself, all his anger directed sideways.  "You're running."

"I don't talk about it," Steve swallows.  "Not just to you.  To anyone."

"You can trust me," Bucky relaxes his body language.  He sits down on a boulder beside the trail, making himself smaller, and Steve sits beside him.

"I already do," Steve plucks at a hangnail until it bleeds down the side of his thumb.  "I think I started when I knew you'd been," he shoots Bucky a worried look, "captured." 

Bucky blinks.  "What?"

"Before, I thought you were just some other clueless guy," Steve winces, "sorry."

"I kind of was," Bucky points out.  

Steve shakes his head.  "But you weren't.  You listened.  And you apologized.  When I typed in your name, before I really knew you, I thought you probably understood better than anyone else I've met.  And when you were on top of the mountain- I knew.  You know what it's like to be trapped.  You don't take being free for granted."

"Thought we were talking about you," Bucky nudges, but there's no anger left in his tone.  

"Someone's following me," Steve's breathing is shallow, like he has the binder back on.  "I'm afraid.  I think, if he gets me back- I won't ever get out again."  

"Steve," Bucky says gently.  "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't have TV growing up," Steve's voice shakes.  "Or any secular books.  I know whole books of the bible by heart.  My family," he looks guiltily at Bucky, "is part of this- religious group, with very strict rules.  I was homeschooled.  I was the oldest, and I helped raise ten brothers and sisters.  I'm still," Steve rubs at his left ring finger.  "I'm," he's shaking so hard Bucky hears his teeth click.  

"You don't have to," Bucky wraps an arm around him.  "Just breathe for a minute."

Steve shakes his head.  "I had no right to treat you like that.  Nothing excuses- I don't want to be mean to you.  You don't deserve it."  He's still shaking, but he's leaning into Bucky's side.

"People do a lot of shitty things when they're afraid," Bucky says.  "And trust me, I've done worse." 

"I'll do better," Steve says.

"Do you want to head back?" Bucky asks.  

"No," Steve says quickly.  "If you're up for it, I want to go to the top.  Stand on the ledge.  We're only half an hour out.  It'll calm me down." 

"Shouldn't've expected anything else."

"Sorry," Steve flushes, pulls away.  His breathing has gone deep again.  "I didn't mean to make you deal with me.  I'm fine.  Actually, if we just pretend I never said-"

Bucky rolls his eyes.  "Come on, Captain America," Bucky gives him a hand up.  "Charge up that mountain and tell me about freedom." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m coming back to this, I promise, it’s just been an overwhelming month for me and I don’t quite have the spoons. I will have more time/mental space soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I finally finished this one 
> 
> content tags: childhood sexual abuse, termination of pregnancy, suicide attempt. if you would like to skip the flashback, start at the line with "tent stake"

The hotter the weather gets in the valley, the more Steve wants to be above the tree line with the cool air that breaks over the granite cliffs. Bucky is easy company, happy to be quiet for long stretches, observing the hawks that dive over the cliffs. He's completely enchanted by a marmot that darts out of its hole to greet them, curious and wholly unafraid. Steve laughs at his open-mouthed expression of joy.

It doesn't stop him from being afraid of him.

He can't be cruel to Bucky, who hasn't done anything to deserve that treatment. He doesn't want to be the kind of person who uses vulnerability as a weapon, and bites back the impulse that comes so naturally to him now, to lash out when he sees an opening. It's difficult, that Bucky is so kind, and that he expects the same from him. The more they spend time together and Steve finds he can't help but like Bucky, the more anxious he feels. He thinks, sometimes, that he remembers himself as someone who used to be able to do this, but he left that person behind with the rest of it. He doesn't know how to parse out the parts he wants without feeling foolish, without the panic that throttles his actions to remind him of their danger. He struggles to put the fear into words when Peggy asks, this inability to choose anything but a distancing hatred and still feel in control. She gives him one of her looks that says she thinks he is still very young, and says, "Darling, you can do everything you're supposed to and it still does not make you safe."

He understands, now perhaps more than ever before, the appeal of easy answers, an unquestionable divide between what is right and what is sinful. He has never found it within himself to feel betrayed by the family who could not leave this fundamental certainty behind, even to love him.

*

He feels blessed to be part of the ministry. He's been chosen to travel to Kansas City with the youth pastor to save the fallen. The pastor calls them God's children, and they are compelled by Jesus to reach the sick and downtrodden.

Sometimes he sings and people rushing to the bus smile at him. “T’was grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved."

Other times he says a verse he thinks will bring someone closer to God, or prays with them. He has hundreds memorized, and it does Pastor Johnson proud. “The fear of man bringeth a snare: but whoso putteth his trust in the Lord shall be safe.”

It makes him feel guilty, the pride the pastor has in him, though he has repeated many times in ministry that everyone is born a sinner. Still, he knows that there are sins that would make him unfit to minister, like Ruth's pride. Her silent condemnation when she watched him take her role made him anxious, and he avoided being seen alone with her. Her anger had the quality of infection, her questions too close to his own for comfort.

It was guilt that drove him to confess his confusion, the terrible feeling of wrongness that followed him to the city when he saw the secular world he'd prepared his entire life to live beside, but not among. He trusted implicitly the inevitability of an answer that would put longing to rest 

It does not happen this way.

Pastor Johnson's expression becomes graver the longer he talks, and Steve starts to wonder whether he should have said anything. Whether he could have just confessed this to Jesus.

"The devil knows you're meant for great things, Judith. He's sent us a test to lead you from the path of righteousness."

Steve isn't so sure this is more serious than other temptations that good Christian women deal with, and says so. He's just afraid that, without support, he might give in to longing in a moment of weakness. Like Ruth.

"But you aren't like Ruth, are you, Judith?" The pastor leans forward, into his space. "Sneaking off at night, backsliding. Letting the devil lead her into temptation without repentance. No," he puts his hand on Steve's knee. "You've always been good, haven't you?"

Steve doesn't think any Christian can think of themselves as good. Everyone has sinned. But he nods anyway. It isn't his place to question; that's what got Ruth in trouble in the first place.  
The pastor smiles, and Steve feels relieved. ''I'm sure we can fix this. I'm glad you came to me.”

Steve tells his parents about what he's been struggling with and feels lighter to have done so. He hadn't realized the burden he'd been carrying with this secret, the fear that the devil would consume him from the inside out. Now he'll get help, he tells them. Pastor Johnson said so.

They're relieved to have someone in charge who can handle this. They don't have the time, with the children, with his mom dealing with his dad's temper in Steve' s absence. Steve can feel them watching him, now that they know. Afraid of the condemnation of the congregation, the revelation that they've failed so utterly.

Steve spends more and more time with the pastor, traveling to give sermons from street corners.

Ruth tries to warn him, but Steve thinks she must be jealous that he's taken her place, now that no one in the congregation will talk to her, with her questions and her anger. They talk about her in code, say that she's fallen, and what a pity, what an example she used to be of God's grace.

In hindsight, what happens next seems obvious. At the time, he didn't see it coming.

It's hard to piece together afterwards, and just as impossible to deny. He doesn't know if it's the shock that makes it disjointed or something else; he feels odd, like that time he got stung by a bee and had to take a lot of Benadryl.

When he gets back from the trip, he tries to tell his parents. They're angrier than he's ever seen them; they accuse him of lying to attack the pastor, of the devil speaking through his mouth to take him away from the fold.

After the next trip, he won't be quiet. He tells anyone who will listen. 

In return the pastor brings him to altar call, says that he is afraid for Judith's immortal soul, that she has been sneaking away during trips. That the devil has gotten hold of her, that he prayed and asked God how he might still save her.

The congregation presses their hands on his body by the foot of the altar, praying to expel the demons that have gotten hold of Judith.

Ruth stands in the back corner of the prayer hall, watching.

The next time he sees her, she's sitting under one of the young apple trees on the compound's property. She holds out a piece of fruit from her pile, red and shining.

"Forbidden fruit?" she calls out, taking a dramatic bite with a grin.

Steve's mother gasps and sends her a disapproving look, moving her children along. Steve stays.

"Judith!" Steve's mother snaps, but he doesn't listen. She hasn't listened to him for months now, and he sees little reason to pretend.

"Thanks,” he takes the apple and sits down beside her.

"They told me I had to forgive him," she said. “We had a meeting with the senior pastor. I said I wouldn't," She shrugged.

"We have to do something,” Steve says. There is so much undirected anger in him he thinks he might choke on it. Sometimes it feels so overwhelming that he can't move.

Ruth shakes her head. "No one cares. Not for people like us. If they believed us," she waves an apple core, gesturing over the grounds, "it would destroy all this. They'd never be able to trust the pastor again.”

Steve can feel the anger throttling him again, leaving hopelessness in its wake.

"Are you queer too?" Ruth asks, flicking away her apple core and looking over at him intently.

“No,” he says quickly. “I don't think so," he pauses. “I don't really know what I am.”

"Ok,” she says easily, and they sit there for a while in silence, watching the breeze through the grass, the long dirt road snaking off into the distance, the high metal fence glinting in the bright sun.

“When the rapture happens, do you think we 'll be left behind?" Steve asks, voice smaller than he'd intended.

Ruth squeezes his hand. "God, I hope so. Can you imagine spending eternity with these fuckers?”

Steve covers his mouth, but the sound escapes his hold, and pretty soon he's laughing while Ruth watches, grinning.

“Well, whatever you are,” she says, "let's jailbreak together, ok?"

"Deal."

Of course, that's when he starts getting sick, so they put it off.

A week later, he's in a meeting with his parents, Pastor Johnson, and the Head Pastor, talking about what should be done while Steve sits quietly and listens, numb.

After some deliberation, Pastor Johnson offers an idea. He’s still determined to save her soul, but she needs firm guidance. She can't be allowed to leave the compound, of course. God only knows where else the devil might lead her. He considers this his duty.

His parents are thrilled. They thought their daughter had been lost to them. This is their last chance at redemption. His mother begs him, tears in her eyes. Steve feels nothing at all.

The marriage ceremony happens soon after, though everyone in the congregation already knows it's a cover. It's a small community, and word spreads fast. No one is surprised; this is where the devil leads the weak. They congratulate Pastor Johnson and wish him luck. It's as if this has only proven his devotion, his charity.

Steve thinks he wants to scream, but doesn't know how to anymore. The days start to blur together. He doesn't go outside because he doesn't want to be looked at. He isn't sure he has a body anymore. He cuts it open to find out.

When he wakes up to bright hospital fluorescents, he finally starts screaming and finds he can't stop. The doctor treats him like he's crazy, and sends in a psychiatrist who tells his parents that he's histrionic.

When a nurse comes in to check his bandages he lets her, because she's nice and her touch is gentle and she doesn't act like he's crazy. When she finishes, she doesn't leave. She looks at him for a moment, curled in on his side, arms outstretched, staring out the window.

"Do you want to be pregnant?" she asks him. Her tone isn't judgemental, just curious.

“I don't have a choice," he says.

“But if you did have a choice.” Steve watches her, and she continues after another moment. He can hear traffic passing outside the window, a far-off rush. “If you wanted to talk to someone about your options, you just have to say it."

He doesn't answer her, and she gets up to leave. "Wait,” he sits up, head spinning a little at the motion. "He'd never let me.”

“He doesn’t have a say.”

“My parents-“ 

“You’re married,” she says. “They don’t get to make choices like that for you anymore.”

He thinks about it. He doesn’t remember the last time someone asked what he wanted. 

“I don’t want it,” he says. “And I can’t go back. They’ll never let me out again.”

“Don't go anywhere,” she says. “I'll be right back.”

*

When it's over and he's on a cot in a women's shelter, using a different name, he feels nothing but relief, even joy. Sometimes he lays on his cot in the evenings, watching himself open and close his hands, fingers articulating at the small joints, and thinks, this is my body. The knowledge is startling.

When he sees the pamphlet on hormones in the waiting room of Planned Parenthood during his follow-up appointment (it's too dangerous to go back to the hospital, to see the nurse ever again), it gives him a purpose. He has a plan by the end of the appointment. He gets a job cooking at a local diner.

He thinks about Ruth every day, but knows he cannot go back. He's terrified his fragile independence will be shattered, that he would never get out, that no one would help him or know how to find him. Or care enough to come.

*

Pastor Johnson finds him at the diner.

He finds him in Kansas City.

He finds him in Springfield.

He finds him in Omaha.

Every time he has to move, he loses all of his savings and has to start over.

*

Years later, he still prays for Ruth, not knowing if she is alive, not knowing if he believes in prayer at all.

*

“No,” Steve yanks the tent stake out of Bucky’s hand with a huff. “Wind’ll pull that right out of the ground. City boy.” 

“It’s hard to do with one hand!” Bucky complains. 

"I’m not staking the tent every night, Barnes. Watch. You did it fine last night."

"Oh, right," Bucky squints as Steve easily stomps the stake into the ground.

This is the end of their second day backcountry hiking. They're covered in sweat but Steve says it's too dangerous to go jump in the tarn now; any water on their clothes might chill them overnight at this elevation, no matter how hot it was during the day.

They set up the camp stove and make mac and cheese with dehydrated chicken, huddled next to one another as the sun dips behind the mountains.

Steve shows Bucky his little journal with references he needs to catch up on when Bucky insists he has to listen to Queen because Freddie Mercury's vocal range was a gift. Steve tells him how excited he was when he understood that one of his customers was referencing a Beatles song, how the whole table went quiet after he said he understood that reference.

Bucky tells him about how he re-learned to walk and talk and feed himself. How he was the only one to tell off Tony Stark when he swung by to meet the disabled veterans, how after that Tony had taken a liking to him.

Steve keeps moving toward Bucky while they're talking, then moving away again. He doesn't want to be afraid. He doesn't think he needs to be. But there's a part of him that's afraid of giving too much permission. That's afraid of losing control, and blaming himself for what happens next.

*

When they wake up it's only just dawn, and freezing cold. Over the course of the night their sleeping quilts have traveled down into the dip in the ground under the center of the tarp. They both pull the quilt over their heads to block out the cold, too warm and relaxed to get up.

It's nice, Steve thinks. Bucky puts off a lot of heat, eyes sliding back shut as Steve watches and breathing steadily. Steve puts a cold foot on his thigh and Bucky grunts, eyes opening.

Steve doesn't say anything, just shuffles closer until Bucky wraps an arm around him, and they lay like that for a few minutes, breathing. Steve knows, with part of his instincts that he hasn't listened to for a long time, that if he wanted him to, Bucky would just lay here like this, not expecting anything else.

Which is why Steve wraps a hand around the back of Bucky's neck and, meeting no resistance, pulls him down to kiss him.

It's awkward, clumsy, but Bucky hums happily and wraps a hand around Steve's hip, stroking at the skin there as he kisses back. The warm weight of him against Steve's body is so good that he gasps a little into Bucky's mouth.

At that, Bucky pulls back, blinking at Steve. "Alright?"

"Yes," Steve says, tugging him back in by his shirt.

“Wait,” Bucky says, not moving away. "What do you want?"

"This,” Steve demonstrates by rubbing up against Bucky’s body, hand on the dense muscle of his back.

“Ok," Bucky agrees, and kisses him.

The hard line of Bucky's cock rubbing against Steve's boxers makes him shake with want, and when he finally shoves a hand down his boxers and starts jerking himself off he groans in relief, tipping his head back. Bucky nips at the exposed line of his neck and tugs at the elastic, asking permission. Steve grabs his hand and shoves it inside his boxers without taking them off, Bucky's fingers gently rubbing up and down Steve's cock until he starts begging.

Bucky stops. "Please what?"

"Put your fingers in me," Steve pants. then suddenly feels self conscious. "Unless you don't like- ohh my god, oh my god,” Steve clutches at Bucky's shoulder as he presses in two thick fingers. The wet sound they make when they move in and out is obscene in the quiet, but Steve can only gasp in high breaths, legs trembling. It feels so good, he needs it, he needs it-

Bucky leans down and kisses him, and Steve realizes he's been talking out loud for only a moment before Bucky's thumb rubs over Steve's cock and Steve makes another desperate noise, god, don't stop-

He comes hard around Bucky’s fingers, clenching down and riding it out until he's too sensitive to do more than lay there and catch his breath. He feels Bucky's fingers slip out and hears Bucky jerking off, which makes Steve roll back onto his side to press his lips to Bucky's neck, hand anchoring on his ass. After a few seconds, Bucky grunts and comes into his hand, then drops his arm to the side, flexing his fingers.

In the chill morning air, their drying sweat makes them start to shiver, and Bucky wipes away the cum with his boxers and pulls Steve back in, tucking the quilts around them.

"I’m not getting stuck like this," Steve says, though he makes no effort to move.

Bucky sighs. "But if we get up, we'll have to go in the lake-thing.”

"The tarn?"

"Yeah," Bucky mumbles. “I'm not washing my underwear, though. I’m just sticking it in my bag and going commando.”

“Same,” Steve mumbles, and falls back asleep.

When they do finally make it to the tarn, Bucky puts one toe in and shouts HOLY SHIT so loudly that Steve doubles over laughing, hands him a wet bandana and tells him to just wipe off what's important.

They head out a little late, but they don't have to be back at any particular time, and the way down is much faster than the climb up.

Steve tells Bucky about the time he learned he couldn't get divorce paperwork signed without either revealing his new name or hiring a lawyer he couldn't afford, and subsequently throwing his old wedding band in the lake in a fit of anger when he should 've pawned it, but he wouldn't've gotten much for it and anyway he doesn't regret it.

They start talking about Peggy's records of Rumlow skimming the books and Pierce's cover-up, about needing to get dirt on Pierce, and Steve wonders aloud about the sale of public lands to private investors that they've pieced together from the photos of maps that Bucky took.

"Sometimes, if they think they've got oil, like at Grand Staircase, they'll make the case for it," Steve thinks out loud. Maybe he wants to build some fancy big money resort, but I don't know why he wouldn't just pitch it. The way things've been in court, I don't think anyone could stop him. I mean, short of 'half dome brought to you by Coca Cola', which I 'm sure he'd do if he thought he could get away with it-“ Steve stops abruptly, and Bucky nearly runs into him.

"It's only a couple hours out of the way,” Steve says.

“What is?" Bucky readjusts his pack. They've switched off so that he's carrying the tent today, the tarp in Steve's pack.

"The site that Pierce put down for surveying. I think we should take a look.”

“A couple hours. You make it sound short.”

Steve shrugs. ''No big deal, you don't have to come. I just realized- I think that's the only place they can put in a road back here. Maybe that's why he's kept after it, even though it's taking him a while to get it approved. I don't know. I've got a feeling. I’m gonna check it out."

"Fine, I’ll come," Bucky grumbles.

"Really, I’m fine on my own," Steve waves him away. "It'll fork off about 5 hours before the end of our trail. There’ll probably be some kind of service cut-out for the surveyors.”

"No, I'm coming," Bucky pushes his hair back into its tie with one hand as the sun begins to creep up overhead. "I'm curious, now.”

*

Steve is crouching down, staring intently at the dirt. He pokes at it with a stick, and leans in closer.

Bucky drops his pack onto the ground and rolls his shoulders out with a soft groan.

"This is cedar bark," Steve says, looking at the dirt then back up at the trees.

“Uh,” Bucky says.

Steve points up with his stick. "The trees are pine!"

"So it's not from around here.”

"Exactly," Steve smiles. "Annabelle- one of the rangers- said it takes two years after chopping down a tree for the bark to fall off like this. The Miwok people used to build their homes with it, because cedar wards off pests. It lasts a long time.” He stands up, looking around. "The National Park Service used to destroy the Miwok dwellings, but now they're working with local tribes to rebuild some of them. Native legal groups have been working for a long time to reclaim places like these or protect them from development, especially if there's a graveyard nearby.”

“You think that could be why Pierce has kept it hushed up?"

Steve nods. "There was a big scandal when they did it at Effigy Mounds. And the Grave Protection and Repatriation Act is pretty clear for any sites with Native artifacts. I bet he brought in some people from outside. Look," he frowned, foot scuffing at the dirt. "It's freshly turned over. Like someone tried to bury the evidence. If I hadn't known what I was looking for...” he trails off, looking out at the clearing. "We should tell Peggy.”

That night, after they've showered and gathered around a table in the staffroom with Peggy and Angie, Steve relates what he found while Bucky picks up hot fries with his metal hand and blows on them.

“I don't know if it means anything, though," Steve worries. “I took some pictures, but that's not proof, not without an archeologist. And I don't know how we'd get one to care. I could try digging, but not without disturbing-“

Peggy gives him a wide, red lipstick smile. "Darling, I do wish you wouldn't try to do everything on your own. There are far easier ways to go about this."

“I'm listening," Steve says.

“I know the woman who runs the National Park Service twitter," Peggy picks up a fry between manicured fingernails. "She thinks Rumlow's a, how did she put it-“ Peggy idly flicks open her phone and scrolls through her messages with the other hand while she eats. "Ah,” she points with her fry, "a condescending frat boy prick." Peggy puts the phone down. “She takes no prisoners, and she has a lot of friends. I’m sure we could find someone qualified to assess the situation, and when we're ready we only need a well-worded tweet."

"Nice tactics," Bucky nods.

“I love you," Angie leans over to give Peggy a kiss, then wipes the lipstick off with a giggle.

*

It takes less than a week.

Rumlow shows up at the front counter the next afternoon smelling like liquor. The guests openly stare at him as he marches up to Peggy.

"You're fired," he says, steadying himself against the countertop.

“I am?" Peggy asks, her composure never shifting. "Didn't answer the phones quickly enough?”

Rumlow shrugs. "Doesn't matter. Not like you have a union. Pack up your shit, quick. I'm supposed to take you to the bus stop."

Peggy studies him for a moment. “No.”

“No?" Rumlow says dangerously, moving further into her space.

"No, I will not go with you. Pierce will have to send someone else if he wants me gone.” She steps out from behind the counter to face him.

“Fine. Don't pack," Rumlow grabs her arm roughly, pulling her forward.

"Let go of my arm," Peggy demands, making no move to walk forward.

“Shut up,” Rumlow growls, yanking hard enough to pull Peggy off-balance.

Peggy twists sharply out of Rumlow’s grip. As the guests flee the foyer and go for their phones, Rumlow turns with an angry yell, drunkenly fumbling for the gun at his belt.

Peggy steps directly into his space, uses the forward momentum to slam her elbow under Rumlow’s chin with a sickening crunch, and knocks him to the ground like a ton of bricks.

As Steve, Bucky, and Angie rush into the room, Peggy kicks the gun out of Rumlow's hand and across the room for good measure.

"Oh," Steve says, staring blankly at Rumlow sprawled on the floor, out cold.

"Nice one, Pegs,” Angie giggles.

"Thank you, darling," Peggy smiles, and goes back behind the desk to retrieve her phone. "Barnes, keep an eye on him, would you?"

"Yes, ma’am," Bucky agrees.

"It seems Pierce is making a last-ditch effort to clean house," Peggy announces. “Headquarters are getting involved- oh, lovely. Someone should be here to fire Pierce within an hour or two. She looks down over her desk at Rumlow on the floor. “We ought to secure him in the storage closet until then. He's a danger to himself and others.”

"That was fast,” Steve comments. “I didn't think they'd actually do it.”

"It's only self-preservation and good business sense," Peggy shrugs. "Getting a handle on the problem before it generates more bad PR. The letters about the sexual harassment likely didn't hurt either. And Pierce is just a cog in the machine to them, after all.”

“Thorough,” Bucky replies, keeping one eye on Rumlow.

She gives him a smile. “Anyone can be felled with the appropriate amount of pressure. It only requires knowing where to push. And when.”

Steve, at Bucky’s side, also watches Rumlow for any signs of consciousness. There are none. "Hey Peggy, can you teach me that?"

"No, dear. Ask Barnes.”

*

When Steve does finally knock Bucky to the ground, grass wet in the dusk and fireflies blinking in and out around them, Bucky is delighted but also refuses to do any more that day. He drops his head in Steve's lap, sighing when Steve undoes the bun and starts playing with his hair.

"Aw," Angie says, leaning her elbows on the wood slats of the porch table and looking out at the field. "They're so cute.”

“I think it's helping," Sam dips his fries in ketchup, because that's the only way anyone should eat fries. "Even when he's fighting him, Steve doesn't treat him like he's some unhinged monster."

"Well, that's good," Peggy agrees.

The crickets are starting up with the evening, thousands of whirring clicks that echo through the forest a few feet away. There’s a slight rustle in the pines that makes Yosemite feel wide open, alive.

"I think they' re talking about us,” Bucky whispers.

“Hm," Steve replies, non-committal, smiling off into the field.

“What're you thinking about?" Bucky looks up at him.

“Mm," Steve looks down. "Fucking you."

"Yes," Bucky says immediately. "Definite yes."

“l don't have anything,” Steve leans back, bracing himself on his palms.

Bucky pulls his phone out of his pocket. "I'm prioritizing prime shipping. Anything else is your choice.”

*

By the end of the summer, Peggy has finished her naturalization ceremony and the wedding invitations are handed out within the week. Steve is deciding between NPS jobs. All of them are scattering across the country.

Peggy kisses Steve on the cheek twice, Angie cries when she hugs all of them and tells everyone she expects to see them at the wedding.

Bucky and Steve stare at each other for a while, and Peggy tugs the others away.

"Bye,” Steve says, swallowing and looking down.

"We can stay in touch," Bucky offers.

"Sure, of course," Steve says.

“What are you going to do with your time off?" Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs. "Get a consult for top surgery. Plus there's someone I'd like to try to find. I think it's time."

"When's your surgery? Where will you be staying?"

Steve shrugs. "Haven't thought that far ahead yet. As soon as my next job lets me take time off, probably.”

"Let me know when. I 'll be there.”

Steve looks up, startled. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." Bucky elbows him. "Someone needs to get you bendy straws and make sure you don't pass out.

“Jerk, '' Steve swallows again.

"Hey. I'm glad I met you," Bucky squeezes his shoulder.

"Yeah, me too, Steve blinks quickly.

"Don't be sad," Bucky rubs his shoulder. "Not about me. You can do much better than me.”

“I don't want to," Steve says.

"You might,” Bucky pulls him in for a hug. "But I’m not planning on going anywhere fast, ok?"

"Yeah," Steve hugs him back briefly, then pushes away. "You should go.”

Bucky leans in and gives him a kiss, then smiles, pretending not to see Steve's furious blinking. "Bye.”

Steve swallows and gives him a wave, watching through the window as he meets up with Sam and makes his way to the bus stop.

*

The June Bug is open for another week as the stragglers make their way through the park at the end of the season. Steve cleans the grill, covers all the tables in tarp, and turns off the lights. He packs up everything into one bag and takes a printout with a list of addresses for Ruth Flores, and gets onto the road.

*

_Being born a woman is my awful tragedy... to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable feminity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars--to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording--all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night...” -Sylvia Plath_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the name Judith (Steve's birth name, sorry if the flashbacks were confusing but I think this is how Steve might see himself looking back) because of Artemisia Gentileschi's painting, Judith slaying Holofernes, Artemisia's backstory, and the biblical story of Judith
> 
> Yes, everyone went to the wedding and Bucky was there for Steve's surgery :)


End file.
